
5^^ ,■ -"^ 



POEAVS 
HELEN <^ACKSON 

ILLV5TRATED 




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<iC 



ROBERTS • BROTHERS -^ ^/ ^ 



BOSXON 

issa 



^-t^ 






Copyright, 1873, 18S6, 1898, 
By Roberts Brothers. 



CEnilJcrsttg '^xtss: 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 




J J ZH EN children in the siimmer weather play, 
^ ^ Flitting like birds through sun and wind and 

rain, 
From road to field, from field to road again, 
Pathetic reckoning of each mile they stray 
They leave in flowers forgotten by the way ; 
Forgotten, dyiiig, but not all in vain, 
Since, finding them, 7ciith tender smiles, half pai?i. 
Half Joy, we sigh, "Some child passed here to-day. ''^ 
Dear one, — whose name I name not lest some tongue 
Pronoicnce it roughly, — like a little child 
Tired out at noon, I left my flowers among 
The wayside things. I know how thou hast smiled. 
And that the thought of them will always be 
One more sweet secret tiling Uwixt thee and me. 




-s^^ 




Page 

■'A Christmas Symphony 9 

^Spinning 13 

'My Legacy 15 

^Love's Largess 17 

'Found frozen 19 

^My Davs 19 

-The Zone of Calms 20 

^Message .... 20 

^My Lighthouses 21 

Jn Time of Famine 23 

-The Prince is dead 24 

poppies on the Wheat 25 

^ Funeral March 26 

Joy 31 

Two Truths 32 

Gondolieds 32 

" Spoken " 35 

The Way to sing 37 

The True Ballad of the King's Singer 38 

CEnone 42 

The Loneliness of Sorrow 43 

A Sunrise 44 

A Ballad of the Gold Country 415 

Exile 50 

My Ship 50 

At Last 51 

Memoir of a Queen 53 

Our Angels 53 



vm CONTENTS. 

Page 

Mazzini 55 

" When the Tide comes in " 56 

The Singer's Hills 57 

Covert 62 

Waiting 63 

Renunciation 63 

Burnt Ships 64 

Resurgam 65 

The Village Lights 71 

Transplanted 72 

Best 74 

Morning-Glory 75 

October 76 

My Bees 77 

The Abbot Paphnutius 78 

Noon 82 

In the Pass 83 

Amreeta Wine 86 

Solitude 87 

Not as I will 88 

Land 89 

Opportunity 90 

When the Baby died 91 

"Old Lamps for New" 93 

Feast 93 

Two Sundays 95 

Showbread 9^ 

Tides 96 

Tribute 97 

" Alms at the Beautiful Gate " 98 

Coronation 9^ 

My New Friend 100 

Asters and Golden-Rod 10 1 

Two Loves '02 

The Good Shepherd 105 

Love's Fulfilling 106 

Wooed 107 

Won 107 

Ariadne's Farewell loS 

Thought 109 



CONTENTS. IX 

Page 

Mordecai 109 

Locusts and Wild Honey no 

A Mother's Farewell to a Voyager in 

"Dropped Dead " 112 

Presence 113 

Polar Days 113 

Truth 114 

Her Eyes 115 

The Wall-Flower of the Ruins of Rome 115 

Shadows of Birds 116 

Glimpses 117 

To A. C. L. B 118 

Snow-Drops in Italy 1 18 

Distance 119 

When the Kings come 120 

Coming across 120 

The Teacher 121 

Decoration Day 122 

A Thirteenth-Century Parable 123 

Form 126 

My Hickory Fire 127 

Revenues 129 

A Burial Service 131 

A Parable . 132 

Friends 133 

The Royal Beggar 134 

March 134 

April 135 

May 136 

The Simple King 136 

The Singer's Friends 139 

Doubt 141 

Forgiven 142 

This Summer 142 

Tryst 144 

The Magic Armory 145 

Lifted over 146 

My House not made with Hands 147 

My Strawberry 150 

Triumph 151 



X CONTENTS. 

Page 

Return to the Hills 152 

"Down to Sleep" 154 

Fallow 155 

Love's Rich and Poor 150 

Light on the Mountain-tops 15S 

Christmas Night in St. Peter's 15S 

Welcome 161 

Two Comrades 161 

Demeter 165 

Expectancy 165 

Belated 166 

To an Unknown Lady 168 

A Wild Rose in September 170 

An Arctic Quest 171 

The Sign of the Daisy 171 

Vintage 172 

Last Words 173 

A Dream 174 

Danger 173 

Freedom 175 

The Gods said Love is blind 176 

The Fir-Tree and the Brook 177 

A Rose-Leaf 17S 

A Woman's Battle 179 

Esther iSo 

Vashti iSo 

Burnt Offering iSi 

Bon Voyage 1S2 

New Year's Morning 1S3 

January 184 

February 1S5 

March 1S5 

April 1S6 

May 1S7 

June 1S7 

July 18S 

August 1S9 

September 189 

October 190 

November 191 



CONTENTS. ^^ 

Page 

December -^ 

,, , . 192 

Refrain ■' 

To an Absent Lover ^^\ 

Crossed Threads ^^^ 

Outward Bound ^'^^ 

Sealed Orders '^o 

Two ^97 

The Gift of Grapes "^f" 

Avalanches 

A Woman's Death-Wound 2°5 



205 

3er 

Appeal 



Chance . 

„ ^ 1 2C6 

September 



Flowers on a Grave 



212 
212 



10 



Wreck -f 

The Heart of a Rose -°^ 

Acquainted with Grief -°9 

Fealty .... 
Vision . . . 
The Poet's Forge 

Vanity of Vanities "^'^ 

Morn . . 
Quatrains 

Release ' 

Where? "'^ 

Emigravit 

My Tenants "^^ 

-The Story of Boon --° 

The Victory of Patience -3^ 

God's Lighthouses ^37 

Songs of Battle ^3=^ 

No Man's Land "39 

Just out of Sight "'^^ 

September Woods ~-^" 

To-day ^^4 

Opportunity "'^ 



246 



A Measure of Hours "-^7 

Charlotte Cvshman ^5° 

2 c t 

Dedication -' 

T,, 2";2 

Dawn 



XI 1 CONTENTS. 

Page 

Eve 253 

Dreams 252 

The Day-Star in the East 253 

October's Bright Clue Weather 254 

The Riviera 256 

Semitones 256 

In the Dark 257 

"Cheyenne Mountain 25S 

In April 258 

Two Harvests 260 

Habeas Corpus 261 

-■" With them that do Rejoice " 263 

A Last Prayer 264 

The Song he never wrote 264 





t illujtrALionsire by A Cmile BayeCrd as.nd 
the photogrAvureiAre by- Ae5sr6- AV Ebon 
f^'~^kncJ Comp&ny. 



Portrait of Helen Jackson Fycntispiece 

A Christmas Symphony. 

Page 
" O Christmas stars ! your pregnant silentness, 
Mute syllabled in rhythmic light. 
Leads on to-night. 
And beckons, as three thousand years ago 

It beckoning led." 9 

Spinning. 

" I only know that some one came, 
And laid within 
My hand the thread, and said, ' Since you 
Are blind, but one thing you can do.' " . ... 13 

The Prince is dead. 

*' A room in the palace is shut. The king 
And the queen are sitting in black. 

The hut has a door, but the hinge is weak, 

And to-day the wind blows it back." ... 24 



XIV ILLUS TRA TIONS. 

Page 

GONDOLIEDS. 

" I close my eyes ; 
Cold wind blows from the Bridge of Sighs; . 

Kneeling I wait to-morrow." 34 

CEXONE. 

" O, what stain, 
Of red like this on hands of love was seen 
Ever before or since, since love has been ! " . . 43 » 

When the Tide comes in. 

" When the tide goes out. 
The shore looks dark and sad with doubt." . 56 

Resurgam. 

" And Joy comes hand in hand 
With Grief, each bearing crowns with buds of snow. 
Both laying crowns upon my head." 66 

In the Pass. 

" Sudden I heard a joyous cry, ' Behold, behold I ' 
And, smiling still on me, the good guide turned. 
And pointed where broad, sunny fields unrolled 
And spread like banners." ... 84 

Tribute. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 97 

The Wall-Flower of the Ruins of Rome. 

O, golden-winged, on guard at crumbled gate 

And fallen wall of emperors and kings 115 



Fallow 



" Above, below me, on the hill, 
Great fields of grain their fulness fill ; 
The golden fruit bends down the trees , 
The grass stands high round mowers' knees." 155 



ILL US TRA TIONS. XV 

Page 

Light on the AIountain-Tops. 

"In Alpine valleys, they who watch for dawn 
Look never to the east ; but fix their eyes 
On loftier mountain-peaks of snow, which rise 

To west or south." 158 

Belated. 

" When at my very feet I saw, 
With sudden joy, half joy, half awe, 
Low nestled in a dead log's cleft, 
One pale Twin-Flower, the last one left " . . 167 

Last Words. (Grave on Cheyenne ^Mountain.) 

" And when, remembering me, you come some day 
And stand there, speak no praise, but only say, 
' How she loved us ! 'T was that which made her dear ! ' 
Those are the words that I shall joy to hear." . . . . 173 

Esther. 

" Thou heldest thy race too dear, thyself too cheap ; 
Honor no second place for truth can keep." . . . 180 

January. 

" O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire." . . 1S4 



May, 



' No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day 
So subtly sweet as memories which unfold 
In aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie, 
To sun themselves once more before they die." . 187 



July. 



"But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content. 
Like starry blooms on a new firmament, 
White lilies float and regally abide." .... iSS 



XVI ILL US TRA riOA'S. 

Page 

September. 

" O golden month ! How high thy gold is heaped! 
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung 

On wands ; " 1S9 

The Story of Boon. 

" With trembling lips he spoke." .... 222 

" Sudden a clash of arms, — a gleam 
Of fire of torches! " 226 

Songs of Battle. 

" Old as the world — no other things so old ! " . . 23S 

Charlotte Cushman 250 

The Riviera. 

" O peerless shore of peerless sea ! 
From all the world we turn to thee." . . . 256 



POEMS. 




A CHRISTMAS SYMPHONY. 



CHRISTMAS stars ! your pregnant silent- 

ness, 
Mute syllabled in rhythmic light, 
Leads on to-night, 
And beckons, as three thousand years ago 
It beckoning led. We, simple shepherds, know 

Little we can confess, 
Beyond that we are poor, and creep 
And wander with our sheep. 

Who love and follow us. We hear, 
If we attend, a singing in the sky ; 

But feel no fear. 
Knowing that God is always nigh, 
And none pass by, 
Except His Sons, who cannot bring 
Tidings of evil, since they sing. 
Wise men with gifts are hurrying. 
In haste to seek the meaning of the Star, 
In search of worship which is new and far. 



lO rOEMS. 

We are but humble, so we keep 
On through the night, contented with our 
sheep. 
And with the stars. Between us and the east, 

No wall, no tree, no cloud, lifts bar. 
We know the sunrise. Not one least 
Of all its tokens can escape 
Our eyes that watch. But all days are 
As nights, and nights as days. 
In our still ways. 

We have no dread of any shape 

Which darkness can assume or fill ; 
We are not weary ; we can wait \ 
God's hours are never late. 
The wise men say they will return. 
Revealing unto us the things they learn. 

Mayhap ! Meantime the Star stands still ; 
And, having that, we have the Sign. 
If we mistake, God is divine ! 

II. 

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, 

Oh, not alone because Judea waits 
This man-child for her King, the Star stands still. 

Its glory reinstates, 
Beyond humiliation's utmost ill. 
On peerless throne, which she alone can fill. 
Each earthly woman. Motherhood is priced 

Of God, at price no man may dare 
To lessen, or misunderstand. 

The motherhood which came 

To virgin sets in vestal flame, 



A CHRISTMAS SYMPHONY. ii 

Fed by each new-born infant's hand, 
With Heaven's air, 

With Heaven's food, 
The crown of purest purity revealed, 
Virginity eternal signed and sealed 

Upon all motherhood ! 

III. 

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, Q_\ 

Oh, not alone because Judea waits '^ 

This man-child for her King, the Star stands still. H 

The Babe has mates. '' 

Childhood shall be forever on the earth; 
And no man who has hurt or lightly priced 
So much as one sweet hair 

On one sweet infant's head, 
But shall be cursed ! Henceforth all things fulfil 
Protection to each sacred birth. 
No spot shall dare 

Refuse a shelter. Beasts shall tread 
More lightly ; and distress, 
And poverty, and loneliness. 
Yea, and all darkness, shall devise 
To shield each place wherein an infant lies. 

And wisdom shall come seeking it with gift, 
And worship it with myrrh and frankincense ; 
And kings shall tremble if it lift 
Its hand against a throne. 
But mighty in its own 
Great feebleness, and safe in God's defence. 

No harm can touch it, and no death can kill, 
Without its Father's will ! 



POEMS. 



IV. 



Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, 

Oh, not alone because Judea waits 
This man-child for her King, the Star stands still. 
The universe must utter, and fulfil 

The mighty voice which states. 
The mighty destiny which holds, 

Its key-note and its ultimate design. 
Waste places and the deserts must perceive 
That they are priced, 

No less than gardens in the Heart Divine. 
Sorrow her sorrowing must leave, 
And learn one sign 

With joy. And Loss and Gain 

Must be no more. 
And all things which have gone before. 

And all things which remain, 

And all of Life, and all of Death be slain 

In mighty birth, whose name 
Is called Redemption ! Praise ! 

Praise to God ! The same 
To-day and yesterday, and in all days 

Forever ! Praise ! 



Oh, Christmas stars ! Your pregnant silentness, 
Mute syllabled in rhythmic light, 
y Fills all the night. 

No doubt, on all your golden shores. 
Full music rings 
Of Happiness 
As sweet as ours. 




wiJS,- 



SPINNING. 13 

Midway in that great tideless stream which pours, 

And builds its shining road through trackless 
space, 

From you to us, and us to you, must be 
Some mystic place. 

Where all our voices meet, and melt 

Into this solemn silence which is felt, 

And sense of sound mysterious brings 

Where sound is not. This is God's secret. He 
Sits centred in his myriads of skies. 
Where seas of sound and seas of silence rise, 

And break together in one note and key. 
Divinely limitless in harmony ! 



SPINNING. 

|IKE a blind spinner in the sun, 
I tread my days ; 

I know that all the threads will run 
Appointed ways ; 
I know each day will bring its task. 
And, being blind, no more I ask. 

I do not know the use or name 

Of that I spin ; 
I only know that some one came. 

And laid within 
My hand the thread, and said, " Since you 
Are blind, but one thing you can do." 

Sometimes the threads so rough and fast 
And tangled fly. 




14 



POEMS. 

I know wild storms are sweeping past, 

And fear that I 
Shall fall ; but dare not try to find 
A safer place, since I am blind. 

I know not why, but I am sure 

That tint and place. 
In some great fabric to endure 

Past time and race 
My threads will have ; so from the first. 
Though blind, I never felt accurst. 

I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung 

From one short word 
Said over me when I was young, — 

So young, I heard 
It, knowing not that God's name signed 
My brow, and sealed me his, though blind. 

But whether this be seal or sign 

Within, without, 
It matters not. The bond divine 

I never doubt. 
I know he set me here, and still. 
And glad, and blind, I wait His will ; 

But listen, listen, day by day, 

To hear their tread 
Who bear the finished web away, 

And cut the thread, 
And bring God's message in the sun, 
" Thou poor blind spinner, work is done." 




MV LEGACY. 15 



MY LEGACY. 

HEY told me I was heir, I turned in haste, 
And ran to seek my treasure, 
And wondered as I ran how it was placed, — 
If I should find a measure 
Of gold, or if the titles of fair lands 
And houses would be laid within my hands. 

I journeyed many roads ; I knocked at gates ; 

I spoke to each wayfarer 
I met, and said, " A heritage awaits 

Me. Art not thou the bearer 
Of news ? Some message sent to me whereby 
I learn which way my new possessions lie? " 

Some asked me in ; naught lay beyond their door ; 

Some smiled and would not tarry. 
But said that men were just behind who bore 

More gold than I could carry ; 
And so the morn, the noon, the day were spent, 
While empty-handed up and down I went. 

At last one cried, whose face I could not see. 

As through the mists he hasted ; 
" Poor child, what evil ones have hindered thee. 

Till this whole day is wasted? 
Hath no man told thee that thou art joint heir 
With one named Christ, who waits the goods to share ? " 

The one named Christ I sought for many days, 
In many places vainly ; 



1 6 POEMS. 

I heard men name his name in many ways ; 

I saw his temples plainly ; 
But they who named him most gave me no sign 
To find him by, or prove the heirship mine. 

And when at last I stood before his face, 

I knew him by no token 
Save subtle air of joy which filled the place ; 

Our greeting was not spoken ; 
In solemn silence I received my share, 
Kneeling before my brother and "joint heir." 

My share ! No deed of house or spreading lands, 

As I had dreamed ; no measure 
Heaped up with gold ; my elder brother's hands 

Had never held such treasure. 
Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are fed : 
My brother had not where to lay his head. 

My share ! The right like him to know all pain 
Which hearts are made for knowing ; 

The right to find in loss the surest gain ; 
To reap my joy from sowing 

In bitter tears ; the right with him to keep 

A watch by day and night with all who weep. 

My share ! To-day men call it grief and death ; 

I see the joy and life to-morrow ; 
I thank our Father with my every breath, 

For this sweet legacy of sorrow ; 
And through my tears I call to each, " Joint heir 
With Christ, make haste to ask him for thy share." 




LOVE'S LARGESS. 1 7 



LOVE'S LARGESS. 

i]T my heart's door 

Love standeth, like a king beside 
His royal treasury, whose wide 
Gates open swing, and cannot hide 
Their priceless store. 

His touch and hold 
Its common things to jewels turned ; 
In his sweet fires the dross he burned 
' Away ; and thus he won and earned 
And made its gold. 

So rich I find 
Myself in service of this king, 
The goods we spare, in alms I fling ; 
And breathless days too few hours bring 

Me to be kind. 

To souls whose pain 
My heart can scarcely dare to greet 
With pity, while my own complete 
And blessed joy their loss must mete 

By my great gain. 

Diviner air 
Of beauty, and a grace more free, 
More soft and solemn depths I see 
In every woman's face, since he 

Has called me fair. 

2 



POEMS. 

More true and sure 
Each man's heart seems, more firm for right ; 
Each man I hold more strong in fight, 
Since he stands ever in my sight, 

So brave, so pure. 

More of sun's fire 
Than days can use, and more than nights 
Can name, of stars with rhythmic Hghts, 
And sweetest singing flocks, whose flights 

Can never tire, — 

More bloom than eyes 
Can reach, or hands to grasp may dare, — 
More music in the constant air, 
Than each round wave can hold and bear, 

Before it dies, — 

And more of life 
For living, than all death can kill, 
More good than evil's utmost will 
Can thwart, and peace to more than still 

The fiercest strife — 

All these I find 
In service of this gracious king ; 
From goods we spare, such alms I fling ; 
And pray swift days more hours to bring. 

More bonds to bind. 

O happiness ! 
To utter thee, in vain our eyes 
Seek tears ; and vainly all speech tries ; 
This thing alone our king denies 

In Love's largess. 



MY DA YS. 



19 




FOUND FROZEN. 

HE died, as many travellers have died, 
O'ertaken on an Alpine road by night ; 
Numbed and bewildered by the falling snow, 
Striving, in spite of faihng pulse, and limbs 
Which faltered and grew feeble at each step, 
To toil up the icy steep, and bear 
Patient and faithful to the last, the load 
Which, in the sunny morn, seemed light ! 

And yet 
'T was in the place she called her home, she died ; 
And they who loved her with the all of love 
Their wintry natures had to give, stood by 
And wept some tears, and wrote above her grave 
Some common record which they thought was true ; 
But I, who loved her last and best, — / knew. 



MY DAYS. 




VEILED priestess, in a holy place. 
Day pauseth on her threshold, beckoning ; 
As infants to the mother's bosom spring 
At sound of mother's voice, although her face 
Be hid, I leap with sudden joy. No trace 
Of fear I feel ; I take her hand and fling 
Her arm around my neck, and walk and cling 
Close to her side. She chooses road and pace ; 
I feast along the way on her shewbread ; 
I help an hour or two on her great task ; 



POEMS. 




Beyond this honoring, no wage I ask. 
Then, ere I know, sweet night slips in her stead, 
And, while by sunset fires I rest and bask. 
Warm to her faithful breast she folds my head. 



THE ZONE OF CALMS.^ 

]S yearning currents from the trackless snows, 
And silent Polar seas, unceasing sweep 
To South, to North, and linger not where 
leap 
Red fires from glistening cones, — nor where the rose 
Has triumph on the snow-fed Paramos, 
In upper air, — nor yet where lifts the deep 
Its silver Atolls on whose bosoms sleep 
The purple sponges ; and, as in repose 
Meeting at last, they sink upon the breast 
Of that sweet tropic sea, whose spicy balms 
And central heat have drawn them to its arms, — 
So soul seeks soul, unsatisfied, represt. 
Till in Love's tropic met, they sink to rest. 
At peace forever, in the " Zone of Calms." 



MESSAGE. 




OR one to bear my message, I looked out 
In haste, at noon. The bee and swallow 
passed 

Bound south. My message was to South. I cast 
It trusting as a mariner. No doubt, 

' The Zone of Calms is the space comprised between the second 
decree north latitude and the second degree south. 



MY LIGHTHOUSES. 21 

Sweet bee, blithe swallow, in my lieart about 
Your fellowsliip. 

The stealthy night came fast. 
" O chilly night," I said, '' no friend thou hast 
For me, and morn is far," when lo ! a shout 
Of joy, and riding up as one rides late, 
My friend fell on my neck just in the gate. 
" You got my message then? " 

"No message, sweet, 
Save my own eyes' desire your eyes to meet." 
"You saw no swallow and no bee before 
You came ? " 

" I do remember past my door 
There brushed a bird and bee. O, dearer presage 
Than I had dreamed ! You sent by them a message ? " 



MY LIGHTHOUSES. 

|T westward window of a palace gray, 
Which its own secret still so safely keeps 
That no man now its builder's name can 
say, 
I lie and idly sun myself to-day, 
Dreaming awake far more than one who sleeps, 
Serenely glad, although my gladness weeps. 

I look across the harbor's misty blue, 

And find and lose that magic shifting line 

Where sky one shade less blue meets sea, and through 

The air I catch one flush as if it knew 




22 POEMS. 

Some secret of that meeting, which no sign 
Can show to eyes so far and dim as mine. 

More ships than I can count build mast by mast 
Gay lattice-work with waving green and red 
Across my window-panes. The voyage past, 
They crowd to anchorage so glad, so fast, 
Gliding like ghosts, with noiseless breath and tread, 
Mooring like ghosts, with noiseless iron and lead. 

"O ships and patient men who fare by sea," 
I stretch my hands and vainly questioning cry, 
" Sailed ye from west ? How many nights could ye 
Tell by the lights just where my dear and free 
And lovely land lay sleeping? Passed ye by 
Some danger safe, because her fires were nigh ? " 

Ah me ! my selfish yearning thoughts forget 
How darkness but a hand's-breadth from the coast 
With danger in an evil league is set ! 
Ah ! helpless ships and men more helpless yet, 
Who trust the land-lights' short and empty boast ; 
The lights ye bear aloft and prayers avail ye most. 

But I — ah, patient men who fare by sea, 

Ye would but smile to hear this empty speech, — 

I have such beacon-lights to burn for me. 

In that dear west so lovely, new, and free. 

That evil league by day, by night, can teach 

No spell whose harm my little bark can reach. 



IN TIME OF FAMINE. 23 

No towers of stone uphold those beacon-lights ; 
No distance hides them, and no storm can shake ; 
In valleys they light up the darkest nights, 
They outshine sunny days on sunny heights ; 
They blaze from every house vvhere sleep or wake 
My own who love me for my own poor sake. 

Each thought they think of me lights road of flame 

Across the seas ; no travel on it tires 

My heart. I go if they but speak my name ; 

From Heaven I should come and go the same, 

And find this glow forestalling my desires. 

My darlings, do you hear me ? Trim the fires 1 

Genoa, November 30. 



IN TIME OF FAMINE. 

HE has no heart," they said, and turned 
away, 
Then, stung so that I wished my words 
might be 
Two-edged swords, I answered low : — 

" Have ye 
Not read how once when famine held fierce sway 
In Lydia, and men died day by day 
Of hunger, there were found brave souls whose glee 
Scarce hid their pangs, who said, ' Now we 
Can eat but once in two days ; we will play 
Such games on those days when we eat no food 
That we forget our pain.' 




24 POEMS. 

" Thus they withstood 
Long years of famine ; and to them we owe 
The trumpets, pipes, and balls which mirth finds good 
To-day, and little dreams that of such woe 
They first were born. 

" That woman's life I know 
Has been all famine. Mock now if ye dare, 
To hear her brave sad laughter in the air." 



THE PRINCE IS DEAD. 

3| ROOM in the palace is shut. The king 
And the queen are sitting in black. 
All day weeping servants will run and bring, 
But the heart of the queen will lack 
All things ; and the eyes of the king will swim 
With tears which must not be shed. 
But will make all the air float dark and dim, 
As he looks at each gold and silver toy, 
And thinks how it gladdened the royal boy. 
And dumbly writhes while the courtiers read 
How all the nations his sorrow heed. 
The Prince is dead. 

The hut has a door, but the hinge is weak, 

And to-day the wind blows it back ; 

There are two sitting there who do not speak ; 

They have begged a few rags of black. 

They are hard at work, though their eyes are wet 

With tears which must not be shed ; 




POPPIES ON THE WHEAT. 25 

They dare not look where the cradle is set ; 
They hate the sunbeam which plays on the floor, 
But will make the baby laugh out no more ; 
They feel as if they were turning to stone, 
They wish the neighbors would leave them alone. 
The Prince is dead. 



POPPIES ON THE WHEAT. 

j|LONG Ancona's hills the shimmering heat, 
A tropic tide of air with ebb and flow 
Bathes all the fields of wheat until they 
glow 
Like flashing seas of green, which toss and beat 
Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet 
Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro 
To mark the shore. 

The farmer does not know 
That they are there. He walks with heavy feet, 
Counting the bread and wine by autumn's gain, 
But I, — I smile to think that days remain 
Perhaps to me in which, though bread be sweet 
No more, and red wine warm my blood in vain, 
I shall be glad remembering how the fleet, 
Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat. 





26 POEMS. 



A FUNERAL MARCH. 



ES, all is ready now ; the door and gate 
Have opened this last time for him, more 
wide 

Than is their wont ; no longer side by side 
With us, he passes out ; we follow, meek, 
And weeping at his pomp, which is not pride, 
And which he did not seek. 
We cannot speak. 
Because we loved him so ; we hesitate. 
And cling and linger and in vain belate 
Their feet who bear him. 

Slow, slow, slow. 
With every fibre holding back, we go ; 
And cruel hands, while we are near, 
And weep afresh to hear, 
Have shut the door and shut the gate. 

II. 

The air is full of shapes 

We do not see, but feel ; 
Ghosts which no death escapes. 
No sepulchre can seal ; 
Ghosts of forgotten things of joy and grief; 
And ghosts of things which never were. 
But promised him to be : they may defer 
Their pledges now ; his unbelief 



A FUNERAL MARCH. 27 

Is justified. Oh, why did they abide 

This time, these restless ghosts, which glide, 

Accompanying him ? Can they go in 
Unquestioned, and confront him in the grave, 

And answers win 
From dead lips which the live lips never gave ? 
Will they return across the churchyard gate 
With us, weeping with us, " Too late ! too late ! " 

Or are they dead, as he is dead ? 

And when the burial rites are said. 
Will they lie down, the resurrection to await ? 



III. 

With dumb, pathetic look the poor beasts go 
At unaccustomed pace to suit our woe ; 

Uncomprehending equally 
Or what a grief or what a joy may be. 
House after house where life makes glad 
We bear him past, who all of life has had. 
And men's and women's wistful eyes 
Look out on us in sorrow and surprise, 
For all men are of kin to one who dies. 



IV. 

Eager the light grass bends 
To let us pass, but springs again and waves 
To hide our footsteps ; not a flower saves 

Its blossoming, or sends 
One odor less, as we go by ; 
And never seemed the shining sky 



28 POEI\TS. 

So full of birds and songs before. 
Whole tribes of yellow butterflies 

Dart mockingly and wheel and soar, 

Making it only seem the more 
Impossible, this human death which lies 
Silent beneath their dance who live 
One day and die. Noiseless and swift, 
Winged seeds come through the air, and drift 
Down on the dead man's breast. 
They shall go with him into rest, 
And in the resurrection of the Spring 
To his low grave shall give 
The beauty of some green and flowering thing. 



The glittering sun moves slowly overhead. 
It seems in rhythmic motion with our tread. 
Confronting us with its relentless, hot, 

Unswerving, blinding ray ; 
Then, sparing not 
One subtle torture, it makes haste to lay 
A ghastly shadow all along the way 
Of formless, soundless wheel and lifeless plume. 
All empty shapes in semblance of our gloom. 

Creeping along at our slow pace. 
Not for one moment nor in any place 
Forsaking us, nor ceasing to repeat 
In taunting lines the faltering of our feet ; 
Laying, lifting, in a mocking breath, 
Mocking shadows of the shadow of Death. 



A FUNERAL MARCH. 29 



VI. 



But now comes silent joy, anointing 

With sudden, firm, and tender hand 

Our eyes ; anointed with this clay 

Of burial earth, we see how stand 

Around us, marshalled under God's appointing, 

Such shining ones as on no other day 

Descend. We see, with a majestic face, 

Of love ineffable, One walking in chief place 

Beside the dead, — High Priest 

Of his salvation. King 
Of his surrender, comrade till life ceased, 

Saviour from suffering, — 
O sweet, strong, loving Death ! 
With yearning, pitying breath. 
He looks back from his dead to us, and saith, 
" O mine who love me not, what filled 
Your hearts with this strange fear ? 
Could ye but hear 

The new voice of this man whom I have willed 
To set so free, to make 
Him subject in my kingdom, for the sake 
Of being greater king than I, 
Reigning with Christ eternally ! " 

VII. 

Closer and closer press the shining ones ; 
Clearer and clearer grow the notes 
Of music from the heavenly throats. 
We see the gleaming of the precious stones 



30 POEMS. 

Which set the Gate of Life. King's sons 
Throng out to meet the man we bring ; 
We hear his voice in entering : 

" Oh ! see how all these weep 

Who come with me ! 

Must they return? 
Oh ! send swift messenger to Christ, and see 

If He will bid you keep 

Them too ! " 

Scarce we discern 
From distant Heaven where Christ sits and hears, 
The tender whispered voice, in which he saith, 
" My faithful servant. Death, is Lord of death : 
My days must be a thousand years." 



VIII. 

The Gate of Life swings close. All have gone in ; 
Majestic Death, his freedman following ; 
And all those ghostly shapes, the next of kin. 
Their deeds, which were and were not, rendering ; 

And tender Joy and Grief, 

Bearing in one pale sheaf 
Their harvest ; and the shining ones who come 

And go continually. 

Alone and silently. 
We take the road again that leads us home. 

The mother has no more a son ; 
The wife no husband ; and the child 
No father. Yet around the woman's days 
Immortal loverhood lights blaze 



JOY. 31 

Of deathless fires ; and never mother smiled 
Like her who smiles forever, seeing one 
Immortal child, for whom immortal fatherhood 
Beseeches and receives eternal good. 
And days that were not full are filled ; 

And with triumphant breath, 

Mighty to cheer and save, 
The voices ring which once were stilled. 
The pulses beat which once were chilled, 

" Life is the victory of the grave, 

Christ is Lord of the Lord of Death ! " 



JOY. 

JOY, hast thou a shape? 
Hast thou a breath ? 
How fiUest thou the soundless air? 
Tell me the pillars of thy house ! 
What rest they on? Do they escape 

The victory of Death ? 
And are they fair 

Eternally, who enter in thy house ? 
O Joy, thou viewless spirit, canst thou dare 
To tell the pillars of thy house ? 

On adamant of pain. 

Before the earth 
Was born of sea, before the sea, 
Yea, and before the light, my house 
Was built. None know what loss, what gain, 

Attends each travail birth. 




32 



POEMS. 

No soul could be 

At i^eace when it had entered in my house, 
If the foundations it could touch or see, 

Which stay the pillars of my house ! 




TWO TRUTHS. 

ARLING," he said, " I never meant 

To hurt you ; " and his eyes were wet. 
' I would not hurt you for the world : 
Am I to blame if I forget? " 

" Forgive my selfish tears ! " she cried, 

" Forgive ! I knew that it was not 
Because you meant to hurt me, sweet, — 

I knew it was that you forgot ! " 

But all the same, deep in her heart 

Rankled this thought, and rankles yet, — 

" When love is at its best, one loves 
So much that he cannot forget." 



GONDOLIEDS. 
I. 

YESTERDAY. 

EAR yesterday, glide not so fast ; 
O, let me cling 

To thy white garments floating past ; 
Even to shadows which they cast 




GONDOLIEDS. 2>2> 

I cling, I cling. 

Show me thy face 
Just once, once more ; a single night 
Cannot have brought a loss, a blight 

Upon its grace. 

Nor are they dead whom thou dost bear, 

Robed for the grave. 
See what a smile their red lips wear ; 
To lay them living wilt thou dare 

Into a grave ? 

I know, I know, 
I left thee first ; now I repent ; 
I listen now ; I never meant 

To have thee go. 
Just once, once more, tell me the word 

Thou hadst for me ! 
Alas ! although my heart was stirred, 
I never fully knew or heard 

It was for me. 

O yesterday, 
My yesterday, thy sorest pain, 
Were joy couldst thou but come again, — 

Sweet yesterday. 
Venice, May 26. 

II. 

TO-MORROW. 

All red with joy the waiting west, 

O little swallow, 
Couldst thou tell me which road is best? 
Cleaving high air with thy soft breast 
3 



34 



POEMS. 

For keel, O swallow, 

Thou must o'erlook 
My seas and know if I mistake ; 
I would not the same harbor make 

Which yesterday forsook. 

I hear the swift blades dip and plash 

Of unseen rowers ; 
On unknown land the waters dash ; 
Who knows how it be wise or rash 

To meet the rowers ! 

Premi ! Premi ! 
Venetia's boatmen lean and cry ; 
With voiceless lips, I drift and lie 

Upon the twilight sea. 

The swallow sleeps. Her last low call 

Had sound of warning. 
Sweet little one, whate'er befall, 
Thou wilt not know that it was all, 

In vain thy warning. 

I may not borrow 
A hope, a help. I close my eyes ; 
Cold wind blows from the Bridge of Sighs ; 
Kneeling I wait to-morrow. 



Venice, May 30. 




"SPOKEN." 35 



*' SPOKEN." 

|OUNTING the hours by bells and lights 
We rose and sank ; 
The waves on royal banquet-heights 
Tossed off and drank 
Their jewels made of sun and moon, 
White pearls at midnight, gold at noon. 

Counting the hours by bells and lights, 

We sailed and sailed ; 
Six lonely days, six lonely nights, 

No ship we hailed. 
Till all the sea seemed bound in spell, 
And silence sounded like a knell. 

At last, just when by bells and lights 

Of seventh day 
The dawn grew clear, in sudden flights 

White sails away 
To east, like birds, went spreading slow 
Their wings which reddened in the glow. 

No more we count the bells and lights ; 

We laugh for joy. 
The trumpets with their brazen mights 

Call, " Ship ahoy ! " 
We hold each other's hands ; our cheeks 
Are wet with tears ; but no one speaks. 



36 POEMS. 

In instant comes the sun and lights 

The ship with fire ; 
Each mast creeps up to dizzy heights, 

A blazing spire ; 
One faint " Ahoy," then all in vain 
We look ; we are alone again. 

I have forgotten bells and lights. 

And waves which drank 
Their jewels up ; those days and nights 

Which rose and sank 
Have turned like other pasts, and fled, 
And carried with them all their dead. 

But every day that fire ship lights 

My distant blue, 
And every day glad wonder smites 

My heart anew, 
How in that instant each could heed 
And hear the other's swift God-speed. 

Counting by hours thy days and nights 
In weariness, 

patient soul, on godlike heights 

Of loneliness, 

1 passed thee by ; tears filled our eyes ; 

The loud winds mocked and drowned our cries. 

The hours go by, with bells and lights ; 

We sail, we drift ; 
Our souls in changing tasks and rites, 

Find work and shrift. 
But this I pray, and praying know 
Till faith almost to joy can grow. 




THE WAY TO SING. 37 

That hour by hour the bells, the lights 

Of sound of flame 
Weave spell which ceaselessly recites 

To thee a name, 
And smiles which thou canst not forget 
For thee are suns which never set. 



THE WAY TO SING. 

jjHE birds must know. Who wisely sings 
Will sing as they ; 
The common air has generous wings 

Songs make their way. 
No messenger to run before. 

Devising plan ; 
No mention of the place or hour 

To any man ; 
No waiting till some sound betrays 

A listening ear ; 
No different voice, no new delays, 

If steps draw near. 

" What bird is that? Its song is good." 

And eager eyes 
Go peering through the dusky wood, 

In glad surprise. 
Then late at night, when by his fire 

The traveller sits. 
Watching the flame grow brighter, higher, 

The sweet song flits 



38 POEMS. 

By snatches through his weary brain 

To help him rest ; 
When next he goes that road again, 

An empty nest 
On leafless bough will make him sigh, 

" Ah me ! last spring 
Just here I heard, in passing by, 

That rare bird sing ! " 

But while he sighs, remembering 

How sweet the song. 
The little bird on tireless wing, 

Is borne along 
In other air, and other men 

With weary feet, 
On other roads, the simple strain 

Are finding sweet. 
The birds must know. Who wisely sings 

Will sing as they ; 
The common air has generous wings. 

Songs make their way. 



THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE KING'S 
SINGER. 

HE king rode fast, the king rode well. 
The royal hunt went loud and gay, 
A thousand bleeding chamois fell 
For royal sport that day. 




TRUE BALLAD OF THE KLNG'S SINGER. 39 

When sunset turned the hills all red, 

The royal hunt went still and slow ; 
The king's great horse with weary tread 

Plunged ankle-deep in snow. 

Sudden a strain of music sweet, 

Unearthly sweet, came through the wood ; 
Up sprang the king, and on both feet 

Straight in his saddle stood. 

" Now, by our lady, be it bird, 

Or be it man or elf who plays, 
Never before my ears have heard 

A music fit for praise ! " 

Sullen and tired, the royal hunt 

Followed the king, who tracked the song, 

Unthinking, as is royal wont, 
Ho^y hard the way and long. 

Stretched on a rock the shepherd lay 

And dreamed and piped, and dreamed and sang, 
And careless heard the shout and bay 

With which the echoes rang. 

" Up, man ! the king ! " the hunters cried. 

He slowly stood, and, wondering, 
Turned honest eyes from side to side : 

To him, each looked like king. 

Strange shyness seized the king's bold tongue ; 

He saw how easy to displease 
This savage man who stood among 

His courtiers, so at ease. 



40 POEMS. 

But kings have silver speech to use 
When on their pleasure they are bent ; 

The simple shepherd could not choose ; 
Like one in dream he went. 

O hear ! O hear ! The ringing sound 
Of twenty trumpets swept the street, 

The king a minstrel now has found, 
For royal music meet. 

With cloth of gold, and cloth of red, 
And woman's eyes the place is bright. 

" Now, shepherd, sing," the king has said, 
" The song you sang last night ! " 

One faint sound stirs the perfumed air, 
The courtiers scornfully look down ; 

The shepherd kneels in dumb despair, 
Seeing the king's dark frown. 

The king is just ; the king will wait. 

" Ho, guards ! let him be gently led, 
Let him grow used to royal state, — 

To being housed and fed." 

All night the king unquiet lay. 

Racked by his dream's presentiment ; 

Then rose in haste at break of day, 
And for the shepherd sent. 

" Ho now, thou beast, thou savage man, 
How sound thou sleepest, not to hear 1 " 

They jeering laughed, but soon began 
To louder call in fear. 



TRUE BALLAD OF THE KLNG'S SINGER. 41 

They wrenched the bolts ; unrumpled stood 

The princely bed all silken fine, 
Untouched the plates of royal food, 

The flask of royal wine ! 

The costly robes strewn on the floor, 

The chamber empty, ghastly still ; 
The guards stood trembling at the door, 

And dared not cross the sill. 

All night the sentinels their round 

Had kept. No man could pass that way. 

The window dizzy high from ground ; 
Below, the deep moat lay. 

They crossed themselves. " The foul fiend lurks 
In this," they said. They did not know 

The miracles sweet Freedom works. 
To let her children go. 

It was the fiend himself who took 

That shepherd's shape to pipe and sing ; 

And every man with terror shook, 
For who would tell the king ! 

The heads of men all innocent 

Rolled in the dust that day ; 
And east and west the bloodhounds went, 

Baying their dreadful bay ; 

Safe on a snow too far, too high. 

For scent of dogs or feet of men. 
The shepherd watched the clouds sail by. 

And dreamed and sang again ; 



42 POEMS. 

And crossed himself, and knelt and cried, 
And kissed the holy Edelweiss, 

Believing that the fiends had tried 
To buy him with a price. 

The king rides fast, the king rides well ; 

The summer hunts go loud and gay ; 
The courtiers, who this tale can tell. 

Are getting old and gray. 

But still they say it was a fiend 

That took a shepherd's shape to sing. 

For still the king's heart is not weaned 
To care for other thing. 

Great minstrels come from far and near, 
He will not let them sing or play, 

But waits and listens still to hear 
The song he heard that day. 



OENONE. 

WOE to thee, CEnone ! stricken blind 
And poisoned by a darkness and a pain, 
O, woe to thee, CEnone ! who couldst find 

No love when love lay dying, doubly slain 

Slain thus by thee, QEnone ! 

O, what stain, 

Of red like this on hands of love was seen 

Ever before or since, since love has been ! 

O, woe to thee, (Enone ! Hadst thou said, 




THE LONELINESS OF SORROW. 43 

" Sweet love, lost love, I know now why I live 
And could not die, the days I wished me dead ; 
O love, all strength of life and joy I give 
Thee back ! Ah me, that I have dared to strive 
With fates that bore me to this one sure bliss, 
Thou couldst not rob me, O lost love, of this? " — 

Hadst thou said this, CEnone, though he went 
Bounding with life, thy life, and left thee there 
Dying and glad, such sudden pain had rent 
His heart, that even beating in the fair 
White arms of Helen, hid in her sweet hair, 
It had made always moan, in strange unrest, 
" Qinone's love was greater love, was best." 

[" Paris, the son of Priam, was wounded by one of the poisoned 
arrows of Hercules that Philoctetes bore to the siege of Tro)', where- 
upon he had himself borne up into Ida, that he might see the nymph 
(Enone, whom he once had loved, because she who knew many secret 
things alone could heal him ; but when he had seen her and spoken 
with her, she would deal with the matter m no wise, whereupon Pans 
died of that hurt."] 



THE LONELINESS OF SORROW. 




RIENDS crowd around and take it by the 
hand. 
Intruding gently on its loneliness, 
Striving with word of love and sweet caress 
To draw it into light and air. Like band 
Of brothers, all men gather close, and stand 
About it, making half its grief their own, 
Leaving it never silent nor alone. 



44 POEMS. 

But through all crowds of strangers and of friends, 
Among all voices of good-will and cheer, 
Walks Sorrow, silently, and does not hear. 
Like hermit whom mere loneliness defends ; 
Like one born deaf, to whose still ear sound sends 
No word of message ; and like one born dumb, 
From whose sealed lips complaint can never come. 

Majestic in its patience, and more sweet 
Than all things else that can of souls have birth, 
Bearing the one redemption of this earth 
Which God's eternities fulfil, complete, 
Down to its grave, with steadfast, tireless feet 
It goes uncomforted, serene, alone, 
And leaves not even name on any stone. 



A SUNRISE. 

E slept on a bed of roses, 

I know — 
I, who am least of his subjects. The thing 
Chanced thus. 

Before it was time for the king 
To rise — just before — I saw a red glow 
Stream out of his door, such as roses show 
At heart, such a glow as no fire could bring. 
The solid gold of the whole eastern wing 
Of the palace seemed pale. 

Then, floating low 
Across the threshold, great petals of pink 
Fell from the feet of the king, as he stood 





BALLAD OF THE GOLD COUNTRY. 45 

There, smiling, majestic, serene, and good. 
But was it a bed of roses ? 

I think 
Of another monarch who, on the brink 
Of death by fire, smiled, as a monarch should. 



A BALLAD OF THE GOLD COUNTRY. 

EEP in the hill the gold sand burned ; 
The brook ran yellow with its gleams ; 
Close by, the seekers slept, and turned 
And tossed in restless dreams. 

At dawn they waked. In friendly cheer 
Their dreams they told, by one, by one ; 

And each man laughed the dreams to hear, 
But sighed when they were done. 

Visions of golden birds that flew, 
Of golden cloth piled fold on fold. 

Of rain which shone, and filtered through 
The air in showers of gold ; 

Visions of golden bells that rang. 

Of golden chariots that rolled. 
Visions of girls that danced and sang, 

With hair and robes of gold ; 

Visions of golden stairs that led 

Down golden shafts of depths untold, 

Visions of golden skies that shed 
Gold light on seas of gold. 



46 POEMS. 

" Comrades, your dreams have many shapes," 
Said one who, thoughtful, sat apart : 

" But 1 six nights have dreamed of grapes, 
One dream which fills my heart. 

" A woman meets me, crowned with vine ; 

Great purple clusters fill her hands ; 
Her eyes divinely smile and shine, 

As beckoning she stands. 

" I follow her a single pace ; 

She vanishes, like light or sound. 
And leaves me in a vine-walled place, 

Where grapes pile all the ground." 

The comrades laughed : " We know thee by 
This fevered, drunken dream of thine." 

" Ha, ha," cried he, " never have I 
So much as tasted wine ! 

" Now, follow ye your luring shapes 

Of gold that clinks and gold that shines ; 

I shall await my maid of grapes. 
And plant her trees and vines." 

All through the hills the gold sand burned ; 

All through the lands ran yellow streams ; 
To right, to left, the seekers turned. 

Led by the golden gleams. 

The ruddy hills were gulfed and strained ; 

The rocky fields were torn and trenched ; 
The yellow streams were drained and drained, 

Until their sources quenched. 



BALLAD OF THE GOLD COUNTRY. 47 

The gold came fast ; the gold came free : 

The seekers shouted as they ran, 
" Now let us turn aside, and see 

How fares that husbandman ! " 

" Ho here ! ho there ! good man," they cried, 
And tossed gold nuggets at his feet ; 

'' Serve us with wine ! Where is thy bride 
That told thee tales so sweet? " 

" No wine as yet, my friends, to sell ; 

No bride to show," he smiling said : 
" But here is water from my well ; 

And here is wheaten bread." 

" Is this thy tale? " they jeering cried ; 

" Who was it followed luring shapes? 
And who has won ? It seems she hed, 

Thy maid of purple grapes ! " 

"When years have counted up to ten," 

He answered gayly, smiling still, 
" Come back once more, my merry men, 

And you shall have your fill 

" Of purple grapes and sparkling wine, 
And figs, and nectarines like flames. 

And sweeter eyes than maids' shall shine 
In welcome at your names." 

In scorn they heard ; to scorn they laughed 
The water and the wheaten bread ; 

" We '11 wait until a better draught 
For thy bride's health," they said. 



48 POEMS. 

The years ran fast. The seekers went 
All up, all down the golden lands : 

The streams grew pale ; the hills were spent ; 
Slow ran the golden sands. 

And men were beggars in a day, 
For swift to come was swift to go ; 

What chance had got, chance flung away 
On one more chance's throw. 

And bleached and seamed and riven plains, 
And tossed and tortured rocks like ghosts. 

And blackened lines and charred remains, 
And crumbling chimney-posts. 

For leagues their ghastly records spread 
Of youth, and years, and fortunes gone, 

Like graveyards whose sad living dead 
Had hopeless journeyed on. 

The years had counted up to ten : 
One night, as it grew chill and late. 

The husbandman marked beggar-men 
Who leaned upon his gate. 

" Ho here ! good men," he eager cried, 
Before the wayfarers could speak ; 

" This is my vineyard. Far and wide. 
For laborers I seek. 

" This year has doubled on last year ; 

The fruit breaks down my vines and trees ; 
Tarry and help, till wine runs clear. 

And ask what price you please." 



BALLAD OF THE COLD COUNTRY. 49 

Purple and red, to left, to right, 

For miles the gorgeous vintage blazed ; 

And all day long and into night 
The vintage song was raised. 

And wine ran free all thirst beyond, 
And no hand stinted bread or meat ; 

And maids were gay, and men were fond, 
And hours were swift and sweet. 

The beggar-men they worked with will ; 

Their hands were thin and lithe and strong ; 
Each day they ate good two days' fill. 

They had been starved so long. 

The vintage drew to end. New wine 
From thousand casks was dripping slow, 

And bare and yellow fields gave sign 
For vintagers to go. 

The beggar-men received their pay, 

Bright yellow gold, — twice their demand ; 

The master, as they turned away. 
Held out his brawny hand. 

And said : " Good men, this time next year 

My vintage will be bigger still ; 
Come back, if chance should bring you near. 

And it should suit your will." 

The beggars nodded. But at night 

They said : " No more we go that way : 

He did not know us then ; he might 
Upon another day ! " 
4 



50 POEMS. 



EXILE. 




^EN may be banished, and a blood-price set, 
Tracking their helpless steps in every land, 
Arming against their life each base man's 
hand. 
But light and air and memory are met 
In holy league, to help and save them yet. 
From all of death which souls cannot withstand : 
The subtlest cruelty which ever planned. 
Can never make them pray they may forget 
Because they are forgotten. 

They may go. 
Driven of earth and tossed by salt sea's foam, 
Till every breath one slow dull pain become ; 
It is not exile. Only exiles know : 
Nor distance makes, nor nearness saves the blow ; 
The exile had of exile died at home. 



MY SHIP. 

Y brothers' ships sail out by night, by day ; 
My brothers' feet run merry on the shore, 
They need not weep, believing they no more 




Shall find the loved ones who have sailed away. 
So frequent go their ships, to-morrow may 
See one return for them. 

The ship that bore 
My loved from me lies where she lay before ; 
My heart grows sick within me as I pray 




AT LAST. 51 

The silent skipper, morn by morn, if he 
Will sail before the night. 

With patient tread 
I bear him all my goods. I cannot see 
What more is left that could be stripped from me, 
But still the silent skipper shakes his head : 
Ah me ! I think I never shall be dead ! 



AT LAST. 

THE years I lost before I knew you, 

Love ! 
O, the hills I climbed and came not to you, 
Love ! 
Ah ! who shall render unto us to make 

Us glad, 
The things which for and of each other's sake 
We might have had? 

If you and I had sat and played together. 

Love, 
Two speechless babies in the summer weather. 

Love, 
By one sweet brook which, though it dried up long 

Ago, 
Still makes for me to-day a sweeter song 

Than all I know, — 

If hand in hand through the mysterious gateway. 

Love, 
Of womanhood, we had first looked and straightway. 

Love, 



52 POEMS. 

Had whispered to each other softly, ere 

It yet 
Was dawn, what now in noonday heat and fear 

We both forget, — 

If all of this had given its completeness, 

Love, 
To every hour would it be added sweetness. 

Love? 
Could I know sooner whether it were well 

Or ill 
With thee ? One wish could I more surely tell. 

More swift fulfil? 

Ah ! vainly thus I sit and dream and ponder, 

Love, 
Losing the precious present while I wonder. 

Love, 
About the days in which you grew and came 

To be 
So beautiful, and did not know the name 

Or sight of me. 

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping. 

Love ; 
No past is dead for us, but only sleeping. 

Love ; 
The years of Heaven will all earth's little pain 

Make good. 
Together there we can begin again 

In babyhood. 



OUR ANGELS. 



53 



MEMOIR OF A QUEEN. 




ER name, before she was a queen, boots not. 
When she was crowned, her kingdom said, 
" The Queen ! " 
And, after that, all other names too mean 
By far had seemed. Perhaps all were forgot. 
Save " Queen, sweet queen." 

Such pitiable lot 
As till her birth her kingdom had, was seen 
Never in all fair lands, so torn between 
False grasping powers, that toiled and fought, but got 
No peace. 

All curious search is wholly vain 
For written page or stone whereon occurs 
A mention of the kingdom which obeyed 
This sweet queen's rule. But centuries have laid 
No dead queen down in royal sepulchres 
Whose reisn was greater or more blest than hers. 



OUR ANGELS. 




H ! not with any sound they come, or sign, 
Which fleshly ear or eye can recognize ; 
No curiosity can compass or surprise 
The secret of that intercourse divine 
V.'hich God permits, ordains, across the line, 
The changeless line which bars 
Our earth from other stars. 



54 POEMS. 

But they do come and go continually, 

Our blessed angels, no less ours than His ; 
The blessed angels whom we think we miss ; 
Whose empty graves we weep to name or see, 
And vainly watch, as once in Galilee 
One, weeping, watched in vain, 
Where her lost Christ had lain. 

Whenever in some bitter grief we find, 
All unawares, a deep, mysterious sense 
Of hidden comfort come, we know not whence ; 
When suddenly we see, where we were blind ; 
Where we had struggled, are content, resigned ; 
Are strong where we were weak, — 
And no more strive nor seek, — 

Then we may know that from the far glad skies, 
To note our need, the watchful God has bent. 
And for our instant help has called and sent. 
Of all our loving angels, the most wise 
And tender one, to point to us where lies 
The path that will be best, 
The path of peace and rest. 

And when we find on every sky and field 
A sudden, new, 'and mystic light, which fills 
Our every sense with speechless joy, and thrills 
Us, till we yield ourselves as children yield 
Themselves and watch the spells magicians wield. 
With tireless, sweet surprise. 
And rapture in their eyes, — 



MAZZINL 55 

Then we may know our little ones have run 
Away for just one moment, from their play 
In heavenly gardens, and in their old way 
Are walking by our side, and one by one, 
At all sweet things beneath the earthly sun, 
Are pointing joyfully. 
And calling us to see ! 

Ah ! when we learn the spirit sound and sign. 
And instantly our angels recognize. 
No weariness can tire, no pain surprise 
Our souls rapt in the intercourse divine. 
Which God permits, ordains, across the line, 
The changeless line which bars 
Our earth from other stars. 



MAZZINL 

HAT he is dead the sons of kings are glad ; 

And in their beds the tyrants sounder sleep. 

Now he is dead his martyrdom will reap 
Late harvest of the palms it should have had 
In life. Too late the tardy lands are sad. 
His unclaimed crown in secret they will keep 
For ages, while in chains they vainly weep, 
And vainly grope to find the roads he bade 
Them take. 

O glorious soul ! there is no dearth 
Of worlds. There must be many better worth 
Thy presence and thy leadership than this. 
No doubt, on some great sun to-day, thy birth 
Is for a race, the dawn of Freedom's bliss, 
Which but for thee it might for ages miss. 





56 POEMS. 



"WHEN THE TIDE COMES IN." 

|HEN the tide comes in, 
At once the shore and sea begin 
Together to be glad. 
What the tide has brought 
No man has asked, no man has sought : 
What other tides have had 
The deep sand hides away ; 
The last bit of the wrecks they wrought 
Was burned up yesterday. 

When the tide goes out, 
The shore looks dark and sad with doubt. 

The landmarks are all lost. 

For the tide to turn 
Men patient wait, men restless yearn. 

Sweet channels they have crossed, 

In boats that rocked with glee, 
Stretch now bare stony roads that burn 

And lead away from sea. 

When the tide comes in 
In hearts, at once the hearts begin 

Together to be glad. 

What the tide has brought 
They do not care, they have not sought. 

All joy they ever had 

The new joy multiplies ; 
All pain by which it may be bought 

Seems paltry sacrifice. 




"S^i- ,.>. 




THE SINGER'S HILLS. 57 

When the tide goes out, 
The hearts are wrung with fear and doubt : 

All trace of joy seems lost. 

Will the tide return ? 
In restless questioning they yearn, 
With hands unclasped, uncrossed, 

They weep, on separate ways. 
Ah ! darling, shall we ever learn 

Love's tidal hours and days? 



THE SINGER'S HILLS. 

E dwelt where level lands lay low and drear. 
Long stretches of waste meadow pale and 
sere, 

^Vith dull seas languid tiding up and down. 
Turning the lifeless sands from white to brown, — 
Wide barren fields for miles and miles, until 
The pale horizon walled them in, and still 
No lifted peak, no slope, not even mound 
To raise and cheer the weary eye was found. 
From boyhood up and down these dismal lands, 
And pacing to and fro the barren sands. 
And always gazing, gazing seaward, went 
The Singer. Daily with the sad winds blent 
His yearning voice. 

" There must be hills," he said, 
" I know they stand at sunset rosy red. 
And purple in the dewy shadowed morn ; 
Great forest trees like babes are rocked and borne 




58 POEMS. 

Upon their breasts, and flowers like jewels shine 
Around their feet, and gold and silver line 
Their hidden chambers, and great cities rise 
Stately where their protecting shadow lies, 
And men grow brave and women are more fair 
'Neath higher skies, and in the clearer air ! " 
One day thus longing, gazing, lo ! in awe 
Made calm by ecstasy, he sudden saw, 
Far out to seaward, mountain peaks appear, 
Slow rising from the water pale and clear. 
Purple and azure, there they were, as he 
Had faithful yearning visions they must be ; 
Purple and azure and bright rosy red. 
Like flashing jewels, on the sea they shed 
Their quenchless light. 

Great tears ran down 
The Singer's cheeks, and through the busy town, 
And all across the dreary meadow lands. 
And all along the dreary lifeless sands, 
He called aloud, 

" Ho ! tarry ! tarry ye ! 
Behold those purple mountains in the sea ! " 
The people saw no mountains ! 

" He is mad," 
They careless said, and went their way and had 
No further thought of him. 

And so, among 
Hk fellows' noisy, idle, crowding throng. 
The Singer walked, as strangers walk who speak 
A foreign tongue and have no friend to seek. 
And yet the silent joy which filled his face 
Sometimes their wonder stirred a little space, 



t 



THE SnVGER'S HILLS. 59 

And following his constant seaward look, 

One wistful gaze they also seaward took. 

One day the Singer was not seen. Men said 

That as the early day was breaking red, 

He rowed far out to sea, rowed swift and strong, 

Toward the spot where he had gazed so long. 

Then all the people shook their heads, and went 

A little sadly, thinking he had spent 

His life in vain, and sorry they no more 

Should hear his sweet mad songs along their shore. 

But when the sea with sunset hues was dyed, 

A boat came slowly drifting with the tide, 

Nor oar nor rudder set to turn or stay, 

And on the crimson deck the Singer lay. 

"Ah, he is dead," some cried. " No ! he but sleeps," 

Said others, " madman that he is, joy keeps 

Sweet vigils with him now." 

The light keel grazed 
The sands ; alert and swift the Singer raised 
His head, and with red cheeks and eyes aflame 
Leaped out, and shouted loud, and called by name 
Each man, and breathlessly his story told. 
•' Lo, I have landed on the hills of gold ! 
See, these are flowers, and these are fruits, and these 
Are boughs from off the giant forest trees ; 
And these are jewels which lie loosely there, 
And these are stuffs which beauteous maidens wear ! " 
And staggering he knelt upon the sands 
As laying burdens down. 

But empty hands 
His fellows saw, and passed on smiling. Yet, 
The ecstasy in which his face was set 



6o POEMS. 

Again smote on their hearts with sudden sense 
Of half involuntary reverence. 
And some said, whispering, " Alack, is he 
The madman? Have ye never heard there be 
Some spells which make men blind? " 

And thenceforth they 
More closely watched the Singer day by day, 
Till finally they said, " He is not mad. 
There be such hills, and treasure to be had 
For seeking there ! We too without delay 
Will sail." 

And of the men who sailed that way, 
Some found the purple mountains in the sea, 
Landed, and roamed their treasure countries free, 
And drifted back with brimming laden hands. 
Walking along the lifeless silent sands, 
The Singer, gazing ever seaward, knew, 
Well knew the odors which the soft wind blew 
Of all the fruits and flowers and boughs they bore. 
Standing with hands stretched eager on the shore. 
When they leaped out, he called, " Now God be 

praised, 
Sweet comrades, were they then not fair? " 

Amazed, 
And with dull scorn, the other men who brought 
No treasures, found no mountains, and saw naught 
In these men's hands, beheld them kneeling low, 
Lifting, shouting, and running to and fro 
As men unlading argosies whose freight 
Of gorgeous things bewildered by its weight. 



THE SINGER'S HILLS. 6 1 

Tireless the great years waxed ; the great years 
waned ; 
Slowly the Singer's comrades grew and gained 
Till they were goodly number. 

No man's scorn 
Could hurt or hinder them. No pity born 
Of it could make them blush, or once make less 
Their joy's estate ; and as for loneliness 
They knew it not. 

Still rise the magic hills, 
Purple and gold and red ; the shore still thrills 
With fragrance when the sunset winds begin 
To blow and waft the subtle odors in 
From treasure laden boats that drift, and bide 
The hours and moments of the wave and tide, 
Laden with fruits and boughs and flowers rare, 
x\nd jewels such as monarchs do not wear. 
And costly stuffs which dazzle on the sight. 
Stuffs wrought for purest virgin, bravest knight ; 
And men with cheeks all red, and eyes aflame, 
And hearts that call to hearts by brothers' name. 
Still leap out on the silent lifeless sands, 
And staggering with over-burdened hands 
Joyous lay down the treasures they have brought. 
While smiling, pitying, the world sees nought ! 



62 POEMS. 



COVERT. 



NE day, when sunny fields lay warm and still, 
And from their tufted hillocks, thick and 
sweet 

With moss and pine and ferns, such spicy heat 
Rose up, it seemed the air to overfill, 
And quicken every sense with subtle thrill, 
I rambled on with careless, aimless feet. 
And lingered idly, finding all so sweet. 

Sudden, almost beneath my footsteps' weight, 
Almost before the sunny silence heard 
Their sound, from a low bush, which scarcely stirred 
A twig at lightening of its hidden freight. 
Flew, frightened from her nest, the small brown mate 
Of some melodious, joyous, soaring bird. 
Whose song that instant high in air I heard. 



"Ah ! Heart," I ^aid, "when days are warm and sweet. 
And sunny hours for very joy are still. 
And every sense feels subtle, languid thrill 
Of voiceless memory's renewing heat. 
Fly not at sound of strangers' aimless feet 1 
Of thy love's distant song drink all thy fill ! 
Thy hiding-place is safe. Glad heart, keep still ! " 



REN UN CI A TION. 



63 




WAITING. 

KNOW it will not be to-day ; 

I know it will not be to-morrow ; 

Oh, half in joy and half in sorrow, 
I watch the slow swift hours away ; 
I bid them haste, then bid them stay, 
I long so for the coming day. 

I long so, I would rather wait ; 
Each hour I see the unseen comer ; 
Each hour turns ripe in secret summer 

The joys which I anticipate. 

precious feet, come slow, come late ! 

1 long so, it is bliss to wait ! 

Ah, sweet sad life, so far to-day ! 

Ah, sweet sad life, so near to-morrow ! 

Can joy be joy when we miss sorrow? 

When earth's last sun has rolled away 

In tideless time, and we can say 

No more, " To-morrow," or " To-day " ? 



RENUNCIATION. 

WHEREFORE thus, apart with drooping 
wings 
Thou stillest, saddest angel. 



With hidden face, as if but bitter things 

Thou hadst, and no evangel 
Of good tidings? 



64 POEMS. 

Thou know'st that through our tears 

Of hasty, selfish weeping, 
Comes surer sun ; and for our petty fears 

Of loss, thou hast in keeping 
A greater gain than all of which we dreamed. 

Thou knowest that in grasping 
The bright possessions which so precious seemed, 

We lose them ; but, if clasping 
Thy faithful hand, we tread with steadfast feet 

The path of thy appointing, 
There waits for us a treasury of sweet 

Delight ; royal anointing 
With oil of gladness and of strength ! 

O, things 

Of Heaven, Christ's evangel 
Bearing, call us with shining face and poised wings. 

Thou sweetest, dearest angel ! 



J BURNT SHIPS. 




LOVE, sweet Love, who came with rosy sail 
And foaming prow across the misty sea ! 
O Love, brave Love, whose faith was full 
and free 
That lands of sun and gold, which could not fail, 
Lay in the west, that bloom no wintry gale 

Could blight, and eyes whose love thine own should 
be. 
Called thee, with steadfast voice of prophecy, 
To shores unknown ! 

O Love, poor Love, avail 



RESURGAM. 65 

Thee nothing now thy faiths, thy braveries ; 
There is no sun, no bloom ; a cold wind strips 
The bitter foam from off the wave where dips 
No more thy prow ; the eyes are hostile eyes ; 
The gold is hidden ; vain thy tears and cries ; 
O Love, poor Love, why didst thou burn thy ships ? 



RESURGAM. 




0^V, still, unutterably weak, 

In human helplessness more helpless than 
The smallest of God's other creatures can 
Be left, I lie and do not speak. 
Walls rise and close 
Around. No warning shows 
To me, who am but blind, which wall 
Will shelter, and which one will fall 
And crush me in the dust. 
Not that I sinned, but that it must. 
Each hour, within my heart, some sweet hope dies. 
Each night the dead form lies 
Of some fair purpose which I could not save, 
Ready for day to carry out and hide 
In a dishonored grave. 
My strongest will 
Finds stronger fate stand side by side 
With it, its utmost efforts conquering still 
With such swift might, the dust in which I lie 
Scarce quivers with my struggle and my pain, 
5 



66 POEMS. 

Scarce echoes with my cry. 
Grief comes and passes by, 
And Joy comes hand in hand 
With Grief, each bearing crowns with buds of snow, 
Both laying crowns upon my head. 

Soon as the buds are open, it were vain 
To try to separate or understand — 
No sense of mine can feel or know — 
Which flowers the hand of Joy has shed, 
And which the hand of Pain. 
Therefore I do not choose ; 
Fearing, desiring equally from each, 

I wait. I do not dare refuse. 
Only one sound can reach 
Me where I lie, can stir my veins, 
Or make me lift my eyes. 
That sound drops from the skies, 
A still small voice, — round it great silence lies : 
" Not one of all these things remains. 
Thou shalt arise ! " 

Somewhere on earth. 
Marked, sealed, mine from its hour of birth, 
A stairway lies, down which I shall descend, 
And pass through a dark gate, which at my name. 
And at no other, will swing back and close. 
Where lies this stairway no man knows. 
No man has even wondered. Only I 
Remember it continually. 
Spring never came. 
Her grasses setting, that I did not bend 
Low in the fields, saying : " Lend 



RESURGAM. 67 

But part trust, O Summer ! Many graves, 

Before this sweet grass waves 

Half grown, must open. Ah ! will reapers reap 

Harvest from my low resting-place 
This year ? Or will the withered sods and I 
Lifeless together lie, 
With silent, upturned face, 
Before the autumn winds sweep by?" 

And when the winter snows lie deep, 
I think : " How hard to find. 
Just now, those hidden stairs that wind 
For me." The time must near the end. 
Perhaps for those I leave behind. 
More sad to see the snow. But its pure white, 
I think, would shed a little light, 

And stretch like alabaster skies 
Above the stairway dark I must descend, 
That I may rise. 

Somewhere on earth. 
Marked, sealed, mine from its hour of birth. 
There lies a shining stone, 
My own. 
Perhaps it still is in the quarry's hold. 
Oh ! Pine Tree, wave in winter's cold 
Swifter above it ; in the summer's heat 
Drop spices on it, thick and sweet ; 
Quicken its patient crystals' growth. 
Oh ! be not loth. 
Quarry and Pine, 
And stir of birds in the still North, 
And suns that shine, — 



68 POEMS. 

Give up my smooth white stone ! Hasten it forth. 
My soul in bondage Hes. 
I must arise. 
Perhaps upon the shining stone, 
My own, 
Even to-day the hammers ring. 
The workman does not sing. 
He is a lover and he has a child ; 
To him a gravestone is a fearful thing. 

He has not smiled 
Since under his strong hands the white stone came. 
Though he is slow and dull, 
And could not give a name 
To thoughts which fill his heart too full 

Of prophecy and pain. 
O Workman, sing ! See how the white dust flies 
And glistens in the sunny air. 
No grain but counts ; 
Some fair spot grows more fair 
By it, each moment. In the skies, 

My moment must be near. 
Workman, there is on earth no loss, no waste. 
Sing loud, and make all haste ; 
I must arise. 

Perhaps even now the shining stone. 

My own. 
Stands ready, — arch and base. 
And chiselled lines, and space 
For name all done : and yesterday 
Some sorrowing ones stood round it silently 

And looked at it through tears, 

But passed it by, 



RESURGAM. 69 

Saying, with trembling lips : *' No, no ! 
For stone more beautiful than this we seek. 
Sculptor, dost thou not know 
What lines will make the marble show 
A deeper grief? " Ah ! mourners, speak 
In lower voice. Ye do not see 
What presence guards 
The stone. More than ye dream retards 
Your will. The stone waits there for me. 
My soul in bondage lies 
I must arise. 

Then, when I have descended, and the stone 

Above the stairway has been set, 
The tears of those who reckoned me their own 

A little space will wet 
The grass ; but soon all saddened days 
Count up to comforted and busy years : 
All living men must go their ways 
And leave their dead behind. The tideless light 
Of sun and moon and stars, — silence of night 
And noise of day, and whirling of the great 

Round world itself, — yea, 
All things which are and are not work to lay 

The dead away. 
The crumbling of the stone, more late, 
The sinking of the little mound 
To unmarked level, where with noisy sound 
Roam idle and unwitting feet, 
Least tokens are and smallest part 

Of the oblivion complete 

Which wraps a human grave ; 



70 POEMS. 

And unto me, the hour when the last heart 
Has ceased to save 
My memory, the year 
That sees my white stone lying low, 
The century that sees the grave mound grow, 
Free of my dust, to solid earth again, 
Made ready for new dead, — all these will be 
Alike to me, 
Alike uncounted will remain. 
Their sound I shall not hear 
As I arise. 
They mark no moments in the skies 
Through which I mount. As constant as 

God's law, 
Bearing all joy and grief my first years saw, 
Even my babyhood, — 
Bearing all evil and all good 
Of ripest age, — nowise 
Escaping and nowise forgetting one 
Of all the actions done, — 
And bearing all that lies 
In utmost law for me, — all God's great will, 
All God's great mercy, — still 
I shall arise. 

The fool asks, " With what flesh? in joy or pain? 
Helped or unhelped ? and lonely, or again 

Surrounded by our earthly friends?" 
I know not ; and I glory that I do 

Not know : that for Eternity's great ends 
God counted me as worthy of such trust, 
That I need not be told. 



THE VILLAGE LIGHTS. 71 

I hold 
That if it be 
Less than enough to any soul to know 
Itself immortal, immortality 
In all its boundless spaces will not find 
A place designed 
So small, so low, 
That to a fitting home such soul can go. 
Out to the earthward brink 
Of that great tideless sea 
Light from Christ's garments streams. 
Cowards who fear to tread such beams 
The angels can but pity when they sink. 
Believing thus, I joy although I lie in dust. 

I joy, not that I ask or choose, 
But simply that I must. 

I love and fear not ; and I cannot lose, 
One instant, this great certainty of peace. 
Long as God ceases not, I cannot cease ; 
I must arise. 



THE VILLAGE LIGHTS. 



NLY a little village street, 

Lying along a mountain's side ; 
1 Only the silences which meet 
When weary hands and weary feet 

By night's sweet rest are satisfied ; 
Only the dark of summer nights ; 
Only the commonest of sights. 
The glimmer of the village lights ! 



72 POEMS. 

I know not, then, why it should bring 
Into my eyes such sudden tears. 

But to the mountain's sheltering 

The little village seems to cling, 
As child, all unaware of fears, 

Unconscious that it is caressed. 

In perfect peace and perfect rest 

Asleep upon its mother's breast. 

No stir, no sound ! The shadows creep. 

The old and young, in common trust, 
Are lying down to wait, asleep. 
While Life and Joy will come to keep 

With Death and Pain what tryst they must. 
O faith ! for faith almost too great ! 
Come slow, O day of evil freight ! 
O village hearts, sleep well, sleep late ! 



TRANSPLANTED. 

HEN Christ, the Gardener, said, " These 
many years 
Behold how I have waited 
For fruit upon this barren tree, which bears 

But leaves ! With unabated 
Patience I have nurtured it ; have fed 

Its roots with choicest juices ; 
The sweetest suns their tender warmth have shed 

On it ; still it refuses 
Its blossom ; all the balmiest summer rain 
Has bathed it ; unrepaying. 




TRANSPLANTED. 73 

Still, its green and glittering leaves, in vain 

And empty show arraying. 
It flaunts, contented in its uselessness. 

Ever my eye offending. 
Uproot it ! Set it in the wilderness ! 

There no more gentle tending 
Shall it receive ; but, pricked by netde stings, 

And bruised and hurt, and crowded 
By stones, r.nd weeds, and noxious growths of things 

That kill, and chilled 'neath shrouded 
And sunless skies, from whose black clouds no rain 

Shall fall to soothe its anguish, 
Bearing the utmost it can feel of pain, 

Unsuccored, it shall languish ! " 



When next across the wilderness Christ came, 

Seeking his Royal Garden, 
A tree stood in his pathway, all aflame, 

And bending with its burden 
Of burnished gold. No fruit inside the wall 

Had grown to such perfection ! 
It was the outcast tree ! Deprived of all 

Kind nurture and protection, 
Thrust out among vile things of poisonous growth, 

Condemned, disgraced, and banished. 
Lonely and scorned, its energies put forth 

Anew. All false show vanished ; 
Its roots struck downward with determined hold. 

No more the surface roaming ; 
And from th' unfriendly soil, a thousand-fold 

Of yield compelled. 

The coming 



74 POEMS. 

Of the Gardener now in sweet humility 

It waited, trusting, trembling ; 
Then Christ, the Gardener, smiled and said : 

" O tree, 
This day, in the assembling 

Of mine, in Paradise, shalt thou be found. 
Henceforth in me abiding. 
More golden fruit shalt thou bring forth ; and round 

Thy root the livdng waters gliding 
Shall give the greenness which can never fade. 
While angels, with thy new name sealing 

Thee, shall come, and gather in thy shade 
Leaves for the nations' healing ! " 



BEST. 

jlOTHER, I see you, with your nursery light, 
Leading your babies, all in white, 
To their sweet rest ; 
Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night. 
And that is best. 

I cannot help tears, when I see them twine 
Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine 

On your warm breast ; 
But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine. 

He can love best ! 

You tremble each hour because your arms 
Are weak ; your heart is wrung with alarms 

And sore opprest ; 
My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms. 

And that is best. 




MOR.\ 'I.\ 'C- GL OR Y. 75 

You know, over yours may hang even now 
Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow 

Naught can arrest ; 
Mine in God's gardens run to and fro, 

And that is best. 

You know that of yours, your feeblest one 
And dearest may live long years alone, 

Unloved, unblest ; 
Mine are cherished of saints around God's throne. 

And that is best. 

You must dread for yours the crime that sears. 
Dark guilt unwashed by repentant tears, 

And unconfessed ; 
Mine entered spotless on eternal years, 

O, how much the best ! 

But grief is selfish ; I cannot see 
Always why I should so stricken be. 

More than the rest ; 
But I know that, as well as for them, for me 

God did the best ! 



MORNING-GLORY. 



ONDROUS interlacement ! 
Holding fast to threads by green and silky 
rings. 

With the dawn it spreads its white and purple wings ; 
Generous in its bloom, and sheltering while it clings 
Sturdy morning-glorj'. 



76 POEMS. 

Creeping through the casement, 
Slanting to the floor in dusty, shining beams, 
Dancing on the door in quick, fantastic gleams, 
Comes the new day's light, and pours in tideless 
streams, 

Golden morning-glory. 

In the lowly basement, 
Rocking in the sun, the baby's cradle stands ; 
Now the little one thrusts out his rosy hands ; 
Soon his eyes will open ; then in all the lands 

No such morning-glory ! 



OCTOBER. 

ENDING above the spicy woods which blaze. 
Arch skies so blue they flash, and hold the 
sun 

Immeasurably far ; the waters nm 
Too slow, so freighted are the river-ways 
With gold of elms and birches from the maze 
Of forests. Chestnuts, cUcking one by one, 
Escape from satin burs ; her fringes done, 
The gentian spreads them out in sunny days, 
And, like late revellers at dawn, the chance 
Of one sweet, mad, last hour, all things assail, 
And conquering, flush and spin ; while, to enhance 
The spell, by sunset door, wrapped in a veil 
Of red and purple mists, the summer, pale. 
Steals back abne for one more song and dance. 




MY BEES. 77 



MY BEES. 



AN ALLEGORY. 




BEES, sweet bees ! " I said, " that nearest 
field 

Is shining white with fragrant immortelles. 
Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells." 
Then, spicy pines the sunny hive to shield, 
I set, and patient for the autumn's yield 
Of sweet I waited. 

When the village bells 
Rang frosty clear, and from their satin cells 
The chestnuts leaped, rejoicing, I unsealed 
My hive. 

Alas ! no snowy honey there 
Was stored. My wicked bees had borne away 
Their queen and left no trace. 

That very day, 
An idle drone who sauntered through the air 
I tracked and followed, and he led me where 
My truant bees and stolen honey lay. 
Twice faithless bees ! They had sought out to eat 
Rank, bitter herbs. The honey v/as not sweet. 



78 POEMS. 



THE ABBOT PAPHNUTIUS. 




|0W on the gray stone floor Paphnutius knelt 
Scourging his breast, and drawing tight his 
belt 



Of bloody nails. 

" O God, dear God ! " he cried, 
" These many years that I have crucified 
My sinful flesh, and called upon thee night 
And day, are they all reckoned in thy sight? 
And wilt thou tell me now which saint of thine 
I am most like? and is there bond or sign 
That I can find him by and win him here. 
That we may dwell as brothers close and dear?" 

Silent the river kept its gentle flow 
Beneath the walls ; the ash-trees to and fro 
Swayed silent, save a sigh ; a sunbeam laid 
Its bar along the Abbot's beads, which made 
Uncanny rhythm across the quiet air, 
The only ghost of sound which sounded there, 
As fast their smooth-worn balls he turned and told, 
And trembled, thinking he had been too bold. 
But suddenly, with solemn clang and swell. 
In the high tower rang out the vesper-bell ; 
And subtly hidden in the pealing tones. 
Melodious dropping from celestial thrones. 
These words the glad Paphnutius thrilling heard : 
" Be not afraid ! In this thou hast not erred ; 



THE ABBOT PAPHNUTIUS. 79 

Of all my saints, the one whose heart most suits 
To thine is one who, playing reedy flutes, 
In the great market-place goes up and down, 
While men and women dance, in yonder town." 

Oh, much Paphnutius wondered, as he went 
To robe him for the journey. Day was spent, 
And cunning night had spread and lit her snares 
For souls made weak by weariness and cares, 
When to the glittering town the Abbot came. 
With secret shudder, half affright, half shame, 
Close cowled, he mingled in the babbling throng, 
And with reluctant feet was borne along 
To where, by torches' fitful glare and smoke, 
A band of wantons danced, and screamed, and spoke 
Such words as fill pure men with shrinking fear. 
" Good Lord deliver me ! Can he be here," 
The frightened Abbot said, " the man I seek? " 
Lo, as he spoke, a man reeled dizzy, weak 
With ribald laughter, clutching him by gown 
And shoulder ; and before his feet threw down 
Soft twanging flutes, which rolled upon the stone 
And broke. Outcried the Abbot with a groan, 
Seizing the player firm in mighty hands, 
" O man ! what doest thou with these vile bands 
Of harlots ? God hath told to me thou art 
A saint of his, and one whose life and heart 
Are like my own ; and I have journeyed here 
For naught but finding thee." 

In maze and fear, 
The player lifted up his blood-shot eyes. 
And stammered drunkenly, " Good father, lies 



8o POEMS. 

Thy road some other way. Take better heed 

Next time thou seekest saints ! One single deed 

Of good I never did. I Hve in sins. 

Unhand me now ! another dance begins." 

'< Flute-player," said the Abbot, stern and sweet, 

" God cannot lie ! Some deed thou hast done meet 

For serving him. Bethink thee now, and tell. 

Where was it that the blessed chance befell? " 

Half-sobered by the Abbot's voice and mien, 

The player spoke again, " No more I ween 

Of serving God, than if no God there were : 

But now I do remember me of her 

That once I saved from hands of robber-men. 

Whose chief I was. I know I wondered then 

What new blood could have quickened in my veins. 

I gave her, spite myself, of our rich gains 

Three hundred pieces of good gold, to free 

Her husband and her sons from slavery. 

But love of God had nought to do with this : 

I know him, love him not ; I do not miss 

Nor find him in the world. I love my sins. 

Now let me go ! another dance begins." 

" Yes, go ! " the Abbot gently said, and took 

His grasp from off his arm. "But, brother, look, 

If God has thus to thee this one good deed 

So fully counted, wilt thou not take heed 

Thyself, remembering him?" 

Then homeward slow, 
Alone and sad, where he had thought to go 
Triumphant with a new-found brother-saint, 
The Abbot went. But vain he set restraint 



THE ABBOT PAPHNUTIUS. 8 1 

Upon his wondering tlioughts : tlirough prayer, through 

chant, 
The question ever rang, " What could God want 
To teach me, showing me that sinful man 
As saint of nearest kin to me, who can 
Abide no sin of thought or deed." 

Three days 
The Abbot went his patient, silent ways. 
The river lapped in gentle, silent flow 
The cioister-vvall ; the ash-trees to and fro 
Swayed silent, save a sigh : the third night, came — 
Low rapping at the cloister-door, in shame 
And fear — the player ! 

Then Paphnutius rose. 
His pale face kindled red with joyful glows ; 
The monks in angry, speechless wonder stood. 
Seeing this vagabond to brotherhood 
Made so soon welcome. But the Abbot said, 
" O brothers ! this flute-player in such stead 
Is held of God, that, when in loneliness 
I knelt and prayed for some new saint to bless 
Our house, God spoke, and told me this man's name. 
As his who should be brother when he came." 

Flute-player and Paphnutius both have slept 
In dust for centuries. The world has kept 
No record of them save this tale, which sets 
But bootless lesson : still the world forgets 
That God knows best what hearts are counted his 
Still men deny the thing whose sigia they miss ; 
6 




82 FOE MS. 

Still pious souls pray as Paphnutius prayed 
For brother-souls in their own semblance made 
And slowly learn, with outcries and complaints. 
That publicans and sinners may be saints ! 



NOON. 

SWEET, delusive Noon, 

Which the morning climbs to find ; 
O moment sped too soon. 
And morning left behind ; 

While pale gray hours descend 

Fast on the farther slope. 
Where a darkness marks the end 

Of that day's work and hope. 

O Noon, if thou couldst stay ! 

Were there but spell to arrest 
Thy magic moment, — to slay 

Night on the fair sky's breast. 

Or make the morning haste, 

Or the chilly evening tarry. 
And the liquid light they waste 

Give thee, O Noon, to carry ! 

O cruel, stinted drop. 

In sapphire chalice so deep 
That if million suns should stop 

Its walls their light could keep ! 



IN THE PASS. 83 



■ I 



O Love, O Joys above 

All words of my telling, stay 

Does your swiftness mean that love 
Has day, and noon of day ? 

This sweetness more, more sweet. 
And this brightness growing bright, 

This silent, delicious heat, 

This dearer, tenderer light, — 

O Love, mean these a noon, 

A noon which thou climb'st to find, 
That moment over too soon, 

With morning left behind ? 

O Love, we kneel, we pray. 

For our sweet Love's precious sake ; 
Set here the bound of our day ; 

Grant us this choice we make. 

We fear the gray hour's sight. 
The moment over too soon ; 

Spare us the chill of the night ; 
We will forego our noon ! 



IN THE PASS. 

CROSS my road a mountain rose of rock, — 
Fierce, naked rock. Its shadow, black and 
chill. 

Shut out the sun. Gray clouds, which seemed to 
mock 




84 POEMS. 

With cruel challenges my helpless will, 
Sprang up and scaled the steepest crags. The shrill 
Winds, two and two, went breathless out and in, 
Filling the darkened air with evil din. 

I turned away my weary steps and said : 
"This must be confine of some fearful place ; 
Here is no path for mortal man to tread. 
Who enters here will tremble, face to face 
With powers of darkness, whose unearthly race 
In cloud and wind and storm delights to dwell. 
Ruling them all by an uncanny spell." 

The guide but smiled, and, holding fast my hand, 

Compelled me up a path I had not seen. 

It wound round ledges where I scarce could stand ; 

It plunged to sudden sunless depths between 

Immeasurable cliffs, which seemed to lean 

Together, closing as we passed, like door 

Of dungeon which would open nevermore. 

I said again : " I will not go. This way 

Is not for mortal feet." Again the guide 

But smiled, and I again could but obey. 

The path grew narrow ; thundering by its side, 

As loud as ocean at its highest tide, 

A river rushed, all black, and green, and white, 

A boiling stream of molten malachite. 

Sudden I heard a joyous cry, " Behold, behold ! " 
And, smiling still on me, the good guide turned, 
And pointed where broad, sunny fields unrolled 



IN THE rASS. 85 

And spread like banners ; green, so green it burned, 
And lit the air like red ; and blue which yearned 
From all the lofty dome of sky, and bent 
And folded low and circling like a tent ; 

And forests ranged like armies, round and round, 

At feet of mountains of eternal snow ; 

And valleys all alive with happy sound ; 

The song of birds ; swift brooks' delicious flow ; 

The mystic hum of million things that grow ; 

The stir of men ; and gladdening every way. 

Voices of little children at their play ; 

And shining banks of flowers which words refuse 
To paint ; such colors as in summer light 
The rarest, fleetest summer rainbows use, 
But set in gold of sun, and silver white 
Of dew, as thick as gems which blind the sight 
On altar fronts, inlaid with priceless things, 
The jewelled gifts of centuries of kings. 

Then, sitting half in dream, and half in fear 
Of how such wondrous miracle were wrought. 
Thy name, dear friend, I sudden seemed to hear 
Through all the charmed air. 

My loving thought 
Through patient years had vainly groped and sought, 
And found no hidden thing so rare, so good. 
That it might furnish thy similitude. 

O noble soul, whose strengths like mountains stand. 
Whose purposes, like adamantine stone. 




86 POEMS. 

Bar roads to feeble feet, and wrap the land 
In seeming shadow, thou, too, hast thine own 
Sweet valleys full of flowers, for me alone. 
Unseen, unknown, undreamed of by the mass, 
Who do not know the secret of the Pass. 

Cortina d'Ampezzo, Ampezzo Pass, June 22, i86g 



AMREETA WINE. 

HE rose up from the golden feast, 
And her voice rang like the sea ; 
" Sir Knight, put down thy glass and come 
To the battlement with me. 

" That was a charmed wine thou drank'st. 

Signed white from heaven, signed black from hell. 

Alas ! alas ! for the bitter thing 

The sign hath forced thy lips to tell ! " 

" Ho here ! Ho there ! Lift up and bear 

My choice wine out," she said ; 
" That which hath brand of a clasping hand. 

And the seal blood-red." 

" Ho here ! Ho there ! To the castle stair 

Bear all that branded wine ; 
And dash it far, where the breakers are 

Whitest, of the brine ! 

" Let no man dare to shrink or spare. 

Or one red drop to spill ; 
Of the endless pain of that wine's hot stain 

Let the salt sea bear its fill. 



SOLITUDE. 87 

" O woe of mine ! O woe of thine 

O woe of endless thirst ! 
O woe for the Amreeta wine, 

By fate and thee accurst ! " 

The knight spake words of sore dismay 
But her face was white Uke stone ; 

She saw him mount and ride away, 
And made no moan. 

The wind blew east, the wind blew west, 

The airs from sepulchres ; 
No royal heart in all of them 

So dead as hers ! 



SOLITUDE. 

SOLITUDE," I said, " sweet Solitude ! 

I follow fast ; I kneel to find thy trace ; 

I listen low in every secret place ; 
I lay rough hand on eager human lips ; 
I set aside all near companionships ; 
I know thou hast a subtler, rarer good. 

Priestess, how shalt thou be found and wooed ? ' 

1 tracked her where she passed in trackless fields ; 
I trod her path where footprint had not staid 

In sunless woods ; I stopped to hark where laid 
Her very shadow its great bound of light 
And gloom in lifeless arctic day and night ; 
And where, to tropic sun, mid-ocean yields 
Its silent, windless waves, like mirror- shields ; 




88 POEMS. 

But found her not. Great tribes roamed free 

In every trackless field and wood. More plain 

Than speech I heard their voice : in rain, the rain 

Of endless chatter, and in sun, the sun 

Of merry laughing noise, were never done. 

All silence dinned with sound ; and, jostling me, 

In every place, went crowds I could not see. 

In anger, then, at last I cried, " Betray 

Whomever thou canst cheat, O Solitude, 

With promise of thy subtler, rarer good ! 

I seek my joy henceforth in haunts of men. 

Forgetting thee, where thou hast never been ! " 

When, lo ! that instant sounded close and sweet. 

Above the rushing of the city street, 

The voice of Solitude herself, to say, 

" Ha, loving comrade, met at last ! Which way? ' 



''NOT AS I WILL." 

BLINDFOLDED and alone I stand 
With unknown thresholds on each hand ; 
The darkness deepens as I grope, 

Afraid to fear, afraid to hope : 

Yet this one thing I learn to know 

Each day more surely as I go, 

That doors are opened, ways are made. 

Burdens are lifted or are laid, 

By some great law unseen and still, 

Unfathomed purpose to fulfil, 
" Not as I will." 




LAND. 89 

Blindfolded and alone I wait ; 
Loss seems too bitter, gain too late ; 
Too heavy burdens in the load 
And too few helpers on the road ; 
And joy is weak and grief is strong, 
And years and days so long, so long : 
Yet this one thing I learn to know 
Each day more surely as I go, 
That I am glad the good and ill 
By changeless law are ordered still, 
" Not as I will." 

" Not as I will " : the sound grows sweet 
Each time my lips the words repeat. 
" Not as I will " : the darkness feels 
More safe than light when this thought steals 
Like whispered voice to calm and bless 
All unrest and all loneliness. 
" Not as I will," because the One 
Who loved us first and best has gone 
Before us on the road, and still 
For us must all his lov-e fulfil, 
" Not as we will." 



LAND. 

LAND, sweet land ! New World ! my 
world ! 

No mortal knows what seas I sail 
With hope and faith which never fail. 
With heart and will which never quail, 




9° POEMS. 

Till on thy shore my sails are furled, 

O land, sweet land ! New World ! my world ! 

land, sweet land ! New World ! my world ! 

1 cross again, again, again 

The magic seas. Each time I reign 
Crowned conqueror. Each time remain 
New shores on which my sails are furled, 
A sweeter land ! A newer world ! 

world, New World ! Sweet land, my land ! 

1 come to-day, as first I came. 
The sea is swift, the sky is flame. 

My low song sings thy nameless name. 

Lovers who love, ye understand ! 

O sweetest world ! O sweetest land ! 

October 2, 1871. 



OPPORTUNITY. 

DO not know if, climbing some steep hill 
Through fragrant wooded pass, this glimpse 
I bought ; 



Or whether in some midday I was caught 
To upper air, where visions of God's will 
In pictures to our quickened sense fulfil 
His word. But this I saw : 

A path I sought 
Through wall of rock. No human fingers wrought 
The golden gates which opened, sudden, still, 
And wide. My fear was hushed by my delight. 
Surpassing fair the lands ; my path lay plain ; 



WHEN THE BABY DIED. 91 

Alas ! so spell-bound, feasting on the sight, 
I paused, that I but reached the threshold bright. 
When, swinging swift, the golden gates again 
Were rocky walls, by which I wept in vain ! 



WHEN THE BABY DIED. 



I, 




HEN the baby died, 
On every side 
White Hlies and blue violets 
were strown ; 
Unreasoning, the mother's heart made moan : 
" Who counted all these flowers which have grown 
Unhindered in their bloom? 
Was there not room, 
O Earth, and God, couldst thou not care 
For mine a little longer? Fare 
Thy way, O Earth ! All life, all death 
For me ceased with my baby's breath ; 
All Heaven I forget or doubt. 

Within, without, 
Is idle chance, more pitiless than law." 
And that was all the mother saw. 

II. 

When the baby died, 

On every side 
Rose strangers' voices, hard and harsh and loud. 
The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. 



92 POEMS. 

The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed 
That men's eyes might not see 

Her misery ; 
But in her bitter heart she said, 
" Ah me ! 't is well that he is dead, 
My boy for whom there was no food. 
If there were God, and God were good, 
AH human hearts at least might keep 

The right to weep 
Their dead. There is no God, but cruel law." 
And that was all the mother saw. 



III. 

When the baby died. 

On every side 
Swift angels came in shining, singing bands, 
And bore the little one, with gentle hands. 
Into the sunshine of the spirit lands. 

And Christ the Shepherd said, 

" Let them be led 
In gardens nearest to the earth. 
One mother weepeth over birth. 
Another weepeth over death ; 
In vain all Heaven answereth. 
Laughs from the little ones may reach 

Their ears, and teach 
Them what, so blind with tears, they never saw. 
That of all hfe, all death, God's love is law." 




FEAST. 93 



"OLD LAMPS FOR NEW." 

SOUL ! wert thou a poor maid- servant, weak 
And foolish, and unknowing how the walls 
Of shining stones and silver, and fine gold, 
Which made our dwelling glorious, our life 
Assured, were built, that thou must spring at call 
Of our most deadly foe, lured by the sound 
x^nd glitter of his hollow brass, and give 
Into his treacherous hands our all? 

And now 
For thee and me remaineth nothing more, 
But cold and hunger and the desert ! 

Soul, 
Rise up and follow him, and tarry not. 
Nor dare to call thy life thine own, until 
Thou hast waylaid him sitting at his feast. 
And torn our talisman from off his breast ! 



FEAST. 




OR days when guests unbidden 
Walk in my sun, 
With steps that roam unchidden, 
And overrun 
My vines and flowers, and hands 
That rob on all my lands, — 
For such days, still there stands 
One banquet, one ! 



94 POEMS. 

One banquet which, spread under 

A magic mist, 
I taste, until they wonder 

What light has kissed 
My eyes, and where the grapes 
Have hung, whose red escapes 
In mounting, mantling shapes. 

And heats my wrist. 

Crowned with its rosy flowers, 

Pouring its wine, 
Glide faithful ghosts of hours 

Long dead : no sign 
They show of death, or chill, 
But glowing, smiling still, 
Love's utmost joy fulfil 

At word of mine. 

And ringeth through my garden, 

The tireless pace 
Of silver-mailed warden, 

With eastward face. 
Who calmly bides the night, 
And in each first, red light, 
Reads prophecy aright 

Of that day's grace, 

When guests that are unbidden 
Shall all have ceased ; 

And thy dear arms unchidden. 
My love, my priest. 




TWO SUNDAYS. 95 

Shall hold me while the hours 
That were, and are, fling flowers, 
And Hope, the warden, pours 
Wine for our feast. 



TWO SUNDAYS. 

I. 
BABY, alone, in a lowly door, 
Which climbing woodbine made still lower, 
Sat playing with lilies in the sun. 

The loud church-beUs had just begun ; 

The kitten pounced in the sparkling grass 

At stealthy spiders that tried to pass ; 

The big watch-dog kept a threatening eye 

On me, as I lingered, walking by. 

The lilies grew high, and she reached up 

On tiny tiptoes to each gold cup ; 

And laughed aloud, and talked, and clapped 

Her small, brown hands, as the tough stems snapped, 

And flowers fell till the broad hearthstone 

Was covered, and only the topmost one 

Of the lilies left. In sobered glee 

She said to herself, " That 's older than me ! " 

II. 

Two strong men through the lowly door, 
With uneven steps, the baby bore ; 
They had set the bier on the lily bed ; 
The lily she left was crushed and dead. 




g6 POEMS. 

The slow, sad bells had just begun, 
The kitten crouched, afraid, in the sun ; 
And the poor watch-dog, in bewildered pain, 
Took no notice of me as I joined the train. 



SHOWBREAD. 

AST imaged pillars, wrought of fir and palm, 
Past bright pomegranates, swinging on their 
chain. 

And bars of Tyrian cedar, overlain 
With gold, and past the molten sea whose calm 
Waves drink the offerings of spice and balm, 
Lit by the seven sacred lamps whose rain 
Of fragrant fire the almond bowls detain. 
Past clear- eyed cherubim, without alarm. 
And into shadow of the mercy- seat 
We pressed. 

No priest with onyx-stones to meet 
Us there ! Alone our hunger, face to face 
With God, ate of the showbread, sacred, sweet ; 
And listening, heard these words of heavenly grace, — 
" One greater than the temple fills this place." 



TIDES. 

PATIENT shore, that canst not go to meet 
Thy love, the restless sea, how comfortest 
Thou all thy loneUness? Art thou at rest, 
When, loosing his strong arms from round thy feet, 




TRIBUTE. 97 

He turns away? Know'st thou, however sweet 
That other shore may be, that to thy breast 
He must return? And when in sterner test 
He folds thee to a heart which does not beat. 
Wraps thee in ice, and gives no smile, no kiss, 
To break long wintry days, still dost thou miss 
Naught from thy trust? Still wait, unfaltering, 
The higher, warmer waves which leap in spring ? 
O sweet, wise shore, to be so satisfied ! 
O heart, learn from the shore ! Love has a tide ! 



TRIBUTE. 

R. W. E. 

IDWAY in summer, face to face, a king 
I met. No king so gentle and so wise. 
He calls no man his subject; but his eyes, 
In midst of benediction, questioning, 
Each soul compel. A first-fruits offering 
Each soul must owe to him whose fair land lies 
Wherever God has his. No white dove flies 
Too white, no wine too red and rich, to bring. 
With sudden penitence for all her waste, 
My soul to yield her scanty hoards made haste, 
When lo ! they shrank and failed me in that need, 
Like wizard's gold, by worthless dust replaced. 
My speechless grief, the king, with tender heed, 
Thus soothed : " These ashes sow. They are true 

seed." 
O king ! in other summer may I stand 
Before thee yet, the full ear in my hand ! 
7 





98 FOEMS. 



"AOIS AT THE BEAUTIFUL GATE." 

FI, how shall we, lame from the mother's womb; 
The temple enter ! Beautiful in vain 
For us, the gate, where we, in double pain. 
Of suffering and of loss, can find no room ; 
Whose whiteness only makes our outer gloom 
The blacker, and whose shining steps, more plain 
Than words, mock cripples weeping to attain 
The inner courts, where censers, sweet perfume, 
And music fill the air ! 

O sinful fear ! 
Dare not to doubt. Our helplessness laid near 
That gate, is safe ; our faith without alarms 
Can wait ; the good apostles will appear ; 
Our crippled beggary, made rich by alms 
Of God, shall leap and praise, in grateful psalms. 



CORONATION. 

T the king's gate the subtle noon 
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun ; 
Into the drowsy snare too soon 
The guards fell one by one. 

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, 
A beggar went, and laughed, " This brings 

Me chance, at last, to see if men 
Fare better, being kings." 




CORONA TWN. 99 

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, 
Propping his face with hstless hand ; 

Watching the hour-glass sifting down 
Too slow its shining sand. 



" Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me ? 

The beggar turned, and, pitying, 
Rephed, like one in dream, " Of thee, 

Nothing. I want the king." 

Uprose the king, and from his head 
Shook off the crown and threw it by. 

"O man, thou must have known," he said, 
"A greater king than I." 

Through all the gates, unquestioned then. 
Went king and beggar hand in hand. 

Whispered the king, " Shall I know when 
Before his throne I stand? " 

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste 
Were wiping from the king's hot brow 

The crimson lines the crown had traced. 
"This is his presence now." 

At the king's gate, the crafty noon 

Unwove its yellow nets of sun ; 
Out of their sleep in terror soon 

The guards waked one by one. 



POEMS. 

" Ho here ! Ho there ! Has no man seen 
The king? " The cry ran to and fro j 

Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween. 
The laugh that free men know. 

On the king's gate the moss grew gray ; 

The king came not. They called him dead 
And made his eldest son one day 

Slave in his father's stead. 



MY NEW FRIEND. 

SHALLOW voice said, bitterly, "New 
friend ! " 

As if the old alone were true, and, born 
Of sudden freak, the new deserved but scorn 
And deep distrust. 

If love could condescend, 
What scorn in turn ! Do men old garments mend 
With new? And put the new wine, red at morn, 
Into the last year's bottles, thin and worn? 
But love and loving need not to defend 
Themselves. The new is older than the old ; 
And newest friend is oldest friend in this. 
That, waiting him, we longest grieved to miss 
One thing we sought. 

I think when we behold 
Full Heaven, we say not, " Why was this not told? " 
But, " Ah ! For years we 've waited for this bliss ! " 





ASTERS AND GOLDEN ROD. 



ASTERS AND GOLDEN ROD. 

KNOW the lands are lit 
With all the autumn blaze of Golden 
Rod; 

And everywhere the Purple Asters nod 
And bend and wave and flit. 

But when the names I hear, 
I never picture how their pageant lies 
Spread out in tender stateliness of guise, 

The fairest of the year. 

I only see one nook, 
A wooded nook — half sun, half shade — 
Where one I love his footsteps sudden stayed. 

And whispered, " Darling, look ! " 

Two oak leaves, vivid green, 
Hung low among the ferns, and parted wide ; 
While purple Aster Stars, close side by side, 

Like faces peered between. 

Like maiden faces set 
In vine-wreathed window, waiting shy and glad 
For joys whose dim, mysterious promise had 

But promise been, as yet. 

And, like proud lovers bent, 
In regal courtesy, as kings might woo. 
Tall Golden Rods, bareheaded in the dew, 

Above the Asters leant. 



32 POEMS. 

Ah, me ! Lands will be lit 
With every autumn's blaze of Golden Rod, 
And purple Asters everywhere will nod 

And bend and wave and flit ; 

Until, like ripened seed. 
This little earth itself, some noon, shall float 
Off into space, a tiny shining mote, 

Which none but God will heed ; 

But never more will be 
Sweet Asters peering through that branch of oak 
To hear such precious words as dear lips spoke 

That sunny day to me. 

TWO LOVES. 

OVE beckoned me to come more near, 
And wait, two women's songs to hear : 
The songs ran sweet, the songs ran clear ; 
It seemed they never could be done. 
One woman sat and sang in shade. 
Her still hands on her bosom laid ; 
The other sat and sang in sun. 

" I love my love," the one song said, 
" Because he lifts such kingly head. 
And walks with such a kingly tread. 

That men kneel down, and men confess ; 
And women, in soft, sad surprise, 
Acknowledge, by their longing eyes. 

His beauty and his goodliness. 




TJVO LOVES. 103 

*' His glory is my soul's estate ; 
Breathless with love I watch and v/ait 
The hours of his triumphant flite, 

Knowing that far the greater part 
Of all his joy in all his fame 
Surrenders to my whispered name 

In secret places of his heart. 

" And oh ! I love my love again 
With love incredulous of pain, 
Because I know my beauty's chain 

Binds him so sure, binds him so fast. 
I know there is not one swift bliss 
Which men may know, that he can miss, 

Or say of it that it is past." 

This was her song, who sat in sun ; 
It seemed it never would be done, 
Unless its joy should all outrun 

Slow speech, and fall of its own weight ; 
As fountains their sweet source recall, 
And, pausing sudden, break and fall, 

In murmur inarticulate. 

The other song, more soft, more low. 
Out of the shade came floating slow. 
As autumn leaves swim to and fro 

In golden seas of sunny air. 
Her meek hands on her bosom laid, 
Sign of the cross unwitting made ; 

The woman was not young nor fair. 



104 POEMS. 

" I love my love," the low song said, 

Because his noble, kingly head 

Is bowed, while, with most patient tread, 

He walks hard paths he did not choose, 
Smiling where other men would grieve, 
Heart-glad if other men receive 

Their fill of joys which he must lose. 

" I see each failure he must make. 
Each step he cannot but mistake ; 
And, weeping for his soul's dear sake, 

I set my faith with love's own seal, — 
Token of all which he might be. 
Token of all he is to me, 

As God and my own heart reveal. 

"And oh ! I love my love again, 
With love which is as strong as pain. 
Because I know that by the chain 

Of beauty's bond I cannot bind ; 
The sweetest things which make men's bliss, 
In loving me, my love must miss. 

In loving me, he cannot find. 

" So, fearing lest I may not feed 
Always his utmost want and need. 
In trust for her who can succeed 

Where I must fail, his love's estate 
I solemn hold. Its rightful heir, 
A woman younger and more fair, 

Loving my love, I bide and wait." 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 1 05 

This was her song, who sat in shade, 
Her meek hands on her bosom laid, 
Sign of the cross unwitting made ; 

She was not young, she was not fair : 
The sad notes floated sweet and slow, 
As autumn leaves swim to and fro 

On golden seas of sunny air. 

" O Love ! " I said, " which loveth best? 
O Love, dear Love ! which wins thy rest? " 
But Love was gone ; and, in the west, 

The sun, which gave one woman suri, 
And gave the other woman shade, 
Sank down ; on each the cold night laid 

Its silence, and each song was done. 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

ATE at night I saw the shepherd 
Toiling slow along the hill. 
With a smile of joy and patience. 
Facing night winds strong and chill. 
In his arms and in his bosom 
Lay the lambs content and still. 

When the day broke, from the valley 
I looked up and saw no more 

Of the patient, smiling shepherd 
I had seen the night before ; 

But new mounds along the hillside 
Lay in sunshine, frozen hoar ! 





I06 POEMS. 



LOVE'S FULFILLING. 

LOVE is weak 

Which counts the answers and the gains, 
Weighs all the losses and the pains, 
And eagerly each fond word drains 
A joy to seek. 

When Love is strong, 
It never tarries to take heed, 
Or know if iis return exceed 
Its gifts ; in its sweet haste no greed, 

No strifes belong. 

It hardly asks 
If it be loved at all ; to take 
So barren seems, when it can make 
Such bliss, for the beloved sake, 

Of bitter tasks. 

Its ecstasy 
Could find hard death so beauteous. 
It sees through tears how Christ loved us, 
And speaks, in saying " I love thus," 

No blasphemy. 

So much we miss 
If love is weak, so much we gain 
If love is strong, God thinks no pain 
Too sharp or lasting to ordain 

To teach us this. 



WOOED. — WON. 107 



WOOED. 




ITH voice all confident, I knelt and cried, 
" Behold me at thy feet, O darling queen ! 
I kiss, round lowest hem, thy robe of green ; 
In all thy temples I have prophesied, 
And cast out devils in thy name. Confide 
In me. Lift up the veil that hangs between 
My eyes and thy dear face. Tell me what mean 
The voices of thy people." 

Far and wide 
The lovely queen's sweet kingdoms lie. I found 
My way to follow her to utmost bound 
Of all ; and listened, listened, nights and days, 
To every smallest sound on her highways ; 
But could not once her golden sceptre reach, 
Nor win the secret of her people's speech. 



WON. 

II. 

EARIED at last, and sad, I cried, " Refuse 
Me what thou wilt, my queen ! At thy dear 
feet 

Henceforth I lie and sleep, and dream, and eat 
Thy locusts and wild honey. Thou mayst choose. 
Perhaps, that I the latchet of thy shoes 
One day unfasten. Ever incomplete 




Io8 POEMS. 

Leave my desire, too bold, to see thy sweet, 
Unveiled face ; to know what words they use 
Who serve around thy throne." 

Lo ! as I lay. 
In such surrender, on that summer day, 
And sought not, stirred not, came the radiant queen. 
Sweeping me with her robe of leafy green, 
And kissed me everywhere that kiss could go ; 
While all her royal train I longed td know. 
The swallow leading, crowded up to teach 
Me all the secrets of their song and speech. 



ARIADNE'S FAREWELL. 

HE daughter of a king, how should I know 
That there were tinsels wearing face of gold, 
And worthless glass, which in the sunlight's 
hold 
Could shameless answer back my diamond's glow 
With cheat of kindred fire? The currents slow, 
And deep, and strong, and stainless, which had rolled 
Through royal veins for ages, what had told 
To them, that hasty heat and lie could show 
As quick and warm a red as theirs ? 

Go free ! 
The sun is breaking on the sea's blue shield 
Its golden lances ; by their gleam I see 
Thy ship's white sails. Go free, if scorn can yield 
Thee freedom ! 

Then, alone, my love and I, — 
We both are royal ; we know how to die. 





MORDECAI. 109 



THOUGHT. 

MESSENGER, art thou the king, or I ? 
Thou dalliest outside the palace gate 
Till on thine idle armor lie the late 
And heavy dews : the morn's bright, scornful eye 
Reminds thee ; then, in subtle mockery, 
Thou smilest at the window where I wait, 
Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state 
My days go on, while false hours prophesy 
Thy quick return ; at last, in sad despair, 
I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air ; 
When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet, 
And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet. 
Ah ! messenger, thy royal blood to buy, 
I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I. 



MORDECAI. 




AKE friends with him ! He is of royal line. 
Although he sits in rags. Not all of thine 
Array of splendor, pomp of high estate. 
Can buy him from his place within the gate. 
The king's gate of thy happiness, where he. 
Yes, even he, the Jew, remaineth free. 
Never obeisance making, never scorn 
Betraying of thy silver and new-born 
Delight. Make friends with him, for unawares 
The charmed secret of thy joys he bears ; 



no POEMS. 



Be glad, so long as his black sackcloth, late 
And early, thwarts thy sun ; for if in hate 
Thou plottest for his blood, thy own death-cry, 
Not his, comes from the gallows, cubits high. 



LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY. 



HOSPITABLE wilderness, 
I know thy secret sign ; 
All human welcome seemeth less 



To me than thine. 

Such messengers to show me where 

Is water for my feet ; 
Such perfume poured upon my hair, 

Costly and sweet. 

Such couch, such canopy, such floor. 
Such royal banquet spread ; 

Such music through the open door. 
So little said. 

So much bestowed and understood, 
Such flavored courtesy, 

And only kings of unmixed blood 
For company. 

Such rhythmic tales of ancient lores, 
Of sweet and hidden things. 

Rehearsed by sacred troubadours 
On tireless wings. 



A MO THER 'S FARE WELL TO A VO YA GER. 1 1 1 

Such secrets of dominion set 

Unstinted for my choice, 
Such mysteries, unuttered yet, 

Waiting a voice. 

O hospitable wilderness. 

For thee I long and pine ; 

All human welcome seemeth less 
To me than thine. 



A MOTHER'S FAREWELL TO A VOYAGER. 



" sends love and good-by. She thinks she sees the four quar- 
ters of the globe when she looks into the faces of her four children. 
November 2, 1S6S." 



AIL east, sail west, O wanderer. 

In east, in west, you cannot see 
Such suns as rise and set in these 
Four little faces round my knee. 

Blue as the north my first-born's eyes ; 

Her yellow hair hides brow of snow ; 
Like conquerors from the North she brought 

The sweet subjection mothers know. 

Glad and sad, and changed in an hour, 
My next girl's face is tropic sea, 

Where laden winds, whose secret none 
Can tell, sweep on unceasingly. 




2 POEMS. 

Grave and searching, with hidden fire, 
My black-eyed boy kneels like a priest ; 

I know that, looking where he looks. 
We shall see the " Star in the East." 

No name as yet my baby has, 

Her rosy hands are just uncurled ; 

But with wet eyes we kiss her cheeks. 

And thank God for our sweet " new world." 

Sail east, sail west, dear wanderer ! 

God cares for you and cares for me ; 
He knows for which of us 't was best 
To stay with children round her knee. 
Steamship China, November 12, 1868. 

"DROPPED DEAD." 

LL royal strengths in life, until the end, 
Will bear themselves still royally. Degrees 
Of dying they know not : the muddy lees 
They will not drink : no man shall see them bend 
Or slacken in the storm : no man can lend 
To them. Those feeble souls who crouch on knees 
That fail, and cling to shadows of lost ease. 
Death tortures. But, as kings to kings may send. 
He challenges the strong. 

Such death as this 

O'ertakes great love ; a lesser love will miss 

Such stroke ; may dwindle painfully away. 

And fade, and simply cease to breathe, some day. 

But great loves, to the last, have pulses red ; 

All great loves that have ever died dropped dead. 




POLAR DAYS. 113 



PRESENCE. 

NAMELESS thing ! which art and art not ; 
spell 

Whose bond can bind the powers of the air, 
Compelling them thy face to hide or bear, 
O voice ! which, bringing not the faintest swell 
Of sound, canst in the air so crowd and dwell 
That all sounds die. O sight ! which needst no share 
Of sun, which sav'st blind eyes from their despair, 
O touch ! which dost not touch, and yet canst tell 
To waiting flesh, by thy caress complete, 
The whole of love, till veins grow red with heat ; 
O life of life ! to which graves are not girt 
With terror, and all death can bring no hurt. 
O mystery of blessing ! never lift 
Thy veil ! our one inalienable gift ! 



POLAR DAYS. 




3 some poor piteous Lapp., who under firs 
Which bend and break with load of arctic 



snows 

Has crept and crouched to watch when crimson glows 
Begin, feels in his veins the thrilling stirs 
Of warmer life, e'en while his fear deters 
His trust ; and when the orange turns to rose 
In vain, and widening to the westward goes 
The ruddy beam and fades, heartsick defers 



114 POEMS. 

His hope, and shivers through one more long night 
Of sunless day ; — 

So watching, one by one, 
The faintest glimmers of the morn's gray light, 
The sleepless exiled heart waits for the bright 
Full day, and hopes till all its hours are done. 
That the next one will bring its love, its sun. 



TRUTH. 

TRUTH, art thou relentless? Wilt thou 
rest 

Never? From solitude to solitude 
Eternally wilt thou escape ? Thy good 
And beauty luring us to fatal quest. 
Foredoomed to endless loss ? 

O royal guest 
Of Nature's centuries, no spot so rude, 
So void, thy secret cannot there elude 
Our grasp ; no thing too subtle to attest 
Her royal sheltering ; from spheres to spheres 
Of light, through the incalculable years ; 
From force to force, through rock, through sound, 

through flame, 
Our worship wrests but echo of thy name, 
And builds at last, with patient stone, and sod. 
And tears, its altar " to the unknown God." 




THE WALL-FLOWER OF ROME. 



"5 




HER EYES. 

HAT they are brown, no man will dare to say 
He knows. And yet I think that no man's 
look 



Ever those depths of light and shade forsook, 
Until their gentle pain warned him away. 
Of all sweet things I know but one which may 
Be likened to her eyes. 

When, in deep nook 
Of some green field, the water of a brook 
Makes lingering, whirling eddy in its way. 
Round soft drowned leaves ; and in a flash of sun 
They turn to gold, until the ripples run 
Now brown, now yellow, changing as by some 
Swift spell. 

I know not with what body come 
The saints. But this I know, my Paradise 
Will mean the resurrection of her eyes. 



THE WALL-FLOWER OF THE RUINS OF 
ROME. 



GOLDEN-WINGED on guard at crumbled 
gate 

And fallen wall of emperors and kings. 
Whose very names are now forgotten things. 
Thou standest here, in faithfulness to wait 




Ii6 POEMS. 

The centuries through, and of the ancient state 
Keep up the semblance. Never footstep rings 
Across the stones ; and yet, if sun but flings 
One ray, a gleam, like gleam of burnished plate 
On mailed men, thy hands have lit, and sent 
Along the gray and tottering battlement, 
And flung out yellow banners, pricked with red, 
Which need not shame a royal house to spread. 
Ah, golden-winged, the whole of thy deep spell 
I cannot fathom, and thou wilt not tell. 



SHADOWS OF BIRDS. 

i]N darkened air, alone with pain, 
I lay. Like links of heavy chain 
The minutes sounded, measuring day, 
And slipping lifelessly away. 
Sudden across my silent room 
A shadow darker than its gloom 
Swept swift ; a shadow slim and small 
Which poised and darted on the wall, 
And vanished quickly as it came ; 
A shadow, yet it lit like flame ; 
A shadow, yet I heard it sing, 
And heard the rustle of its wing. 
Till every pulse with joy was stirred; 
It was the shadow of a bird ! 

Only the shadow ! Yet it made 
Full summer everywhere it strayed ; 




GLIMPSES. 117 

And every bird I ever knew 

Back and forth in the summer flew ; 

And breezes wafted over me 

The scent of every flower and tree ; 

Till I forgot the pain and gloom 

And silence of my darkened room. 

Now, in the glorious open air, 

I watch the birds fly here and there ; 

And wonder, as each swift wing cleaves 

The sky, if some poor soul that grieves 

In lonely, darkened, silent walls 

Will catch the shadow as it falls ! 



GLIMPSES. 

S when on some great mountain-peak we stand. 
In breathless awe beneath its dome of sky. 
Whose multiplied horizons seem to lie 
Beyond the bounds of earthly sea and land. 
We find the circled space too vast, too grand, 
And soothe our thoughts with restful memory 
Of sudden sunlit glimpses we passed by 
Too quickly, in our feverish demand 
To reach the height, — 

So, darling, when the brink 
Of highest heaven we reach at last, I think 
Even that great gladness will grow yet more glad, 
As we, with eyes that are no longer sad. 
Look back, while Life's horizons slowly sink. 
To some swift moments which on earth we had. 




ii8 POEMS. 



TO A. C. L. B. 




HY house hath gracious freedom, like the air 
Of open fields ; its silence hath a speech 
Of royal welcome to the friends who reach 
Its threshold, and its upper chambers bear. 
Above their doors such spells, that, entering there 
And laying off the dusty garments, each 
Soul whispers to herself : " 'T were like a breach 
Of reverence in a temple could I dare 
Here speak untruth, here wrong my inmost thought. 
Here I grow strong and pure ; here I may yield, 
Without shamefacedness, the little brought 
From out my poorer life, and stand revealed, 
And glad, and trusting, in the sweet and rare 
And tender presence which hath filled this air." 



SNOW-DROPS IN ITALY. 

LOYAL vestals in this land of sun, 
Your white cheeks flush not, and your virgin 
eyes 

Vouchsafe no lifted look. In vain the skies 
Are red and pale with passion ; swift clouds run 
And beckon ; warm winds call ; long days are done 
And nights are spent, and still by no surprise, 
No lure can ye be tempted ! 

O, where lies 
The spell by which your gentleness can shun 




DISTAXCE. 119 

These heats? Is it your hidden zone of gold? 

Or in the emerald whose glimmers show, 

Scarce show, beneath your white robes' inner fold? 

Vain question ! Still your calm bright peace ye hold ; 

And yet ye set my pulses all aglow 

With loyalty like yours to lands of snow. 



DISTANCE. 

SUBTILE secret of the air, 
Making the things that are not, fair 
Beyond the things that we can reach 
And name with names of clumsy speech ; 
By shadow-worlds of purple haze 
The sunniest of sunny days 
Outweighing in our hearts' delight ; 
Opening the eyes of blinded sight; 
Holding an echo in such hold, 
Bidding a hope such wings unfold. 
That present sounds and sights between 
Can come and go, unheard, unseen, — 
O subtile secret of the air, 
Heaven itself is heavenly fair 
By help of thee 1 The saints' good days 
Are good, because the good Lord lays 
No bound of shore along the sea 
Of beautiful Eternity. 





POEMS. 



WHEN THE KINGS COME. 

HEN the Kings come to royal hunting-seats 
To find the royal joys of summer days, 
The servants on the lofty watch-tower raise 
A banner, whose swift token warning greets 
The country. Threatening stern, an armed man meets 
Each stranger, who, by pleasant forest-ways, 
All unawares, has rambled till he strays 
Too close to paths where, in the noonday heats. 
The King, uncrowned, lies down to sleep. Such law 
As this the human soul sets heart and face 
And hand, when once its King has come. In awe, 
And gladness too, all men behold what grace 
Such royal presence to the eye can bring. 
And how the heart and hand can guard their King. 



COMING ACROSS. 




|VERY sail is full set, and the sky 
And the sea blaze with light. 
And the moon mid her virgins glides on 
As St. Ursula might ; 
And the throb of the pulse never stops, 

In the heart of the ship. 
As her measures of water and fire 
She drinks down at a sip. 



THE TEACHER. 121 

Yet I never can think, as I lie, 

And so wearily toss, 
That by saint, or by star, or by ship, 

I am coming across ; 

But by light which I know in dear eyes 

That are bent on the sea, 
And the touch I remember of hands 

That are waiting for me. 
By the light of the eyes I could come, 

If the stars should all fail ; 
And I think, if the ship should go down, 

That the hands would prevail. 
Ah ! my darlings, you never will know 

How I pined in the loss 
Of you all, and how breathless and glad 

I am coming across. 

Steamship Russia, January 22, 1870. 



THE TEACHER. 

jHE people listened, with short, indrawn 
breath. 
And eyes that were too steady set for tears 
This one man's speech rolled off great loads of fears 
From every heart, as sunlight scattereth 
The clouds ; hard doubts, which had been born of 

death. 
Shone out as rain-drops shine when rainbow clears 
The air. "O teacher," then I said, " thy years, 
Are they not joy? Each word that issueth 




122 POEMS. 

From out thy lips, doth it return to bless 
Thy own heart many fold? " 

With weariness 
Of tone he answered, and almost with scorn, 
" I am, of all, most lone in loneliness ; 
I starve with hunger treading out their corn ; 
I die of travail while their souls are born." 



DECORATION DAY. 



HE Eastern wizards do a wondrous thing. 
Which travellers, having seen, scarce dare 
to tell : 

Dropping a seed in earth, by subtle spell 
Of hidden heat they force the germ to spring 
To instant life and growth ; no faltering 
'T wixt leaf and flower and fruit ; they rise and swell 
To perfect shape and size, as if there fell 
Upon them all which seasons hold and bring. 
But Love far greater magic shows to-day : 
Lifting its feeble hands, which can but reach 
The hand's-breadth up, it stretches all the way 
From earth to heaven, and, triumphant, each 
Sweet wilting blossom sets, before it dies. 
Full in the sight of smiling angels' eyes. 

II. 

But, ah ! the graves which no man names or knows ; 
Uncounted graves, which never can be found ; 



A THIRTEEXTH-CENTURY PARABLE. 123 

Graves of the precious " missing," where no sound 

Of tender weeping will be heard, where goes 

No loving step of kindred. O, how flows 

And yearns our thought to them ! More holy ground 

Of graves than this, we say, is that whose bound 

Is secret till eternity disclose 

Its sign. 

But Nature knows her wilderness ; 
There are no " missing " in her numbered ways. 
In her great heart is no forgetfulness. 
Each grave she keeps she will adorn, caress. 
We cannot lay such wreaths as Summer lays, 
And all her days are Decoration Days ! 



A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY PARABLE. 




HEN good Saint Louis reigned in France as 
king, 
I And William, Bishop of Paris, ministering 
To all the churches, kept them pure and glad. 
There came one day a learned man, who had 
Journeyed from distant provinces to find 
His Bishop and unload his burdened mind. 
Entering the Bishop's presence, he began 
To speak : but sobs choked all his voice ; tears ran 
Like rain from out his eyes, and no words came 
To tell his grief. Then said the Bishop : 

" Shame 
Not thyself so deeply. Master : no man 
So sins but that the gracious Jesus can 



124 POEMS. 

Forgive an hundred thousand fold more guilt 

Than his, and cleanse it by his dear blood spilt," 

" I tell you, Sire," the Master said, " I must 

Forever weep : I am accursed. I trust 

Not in the holy altar- sacrament, 

As taught to us ; I cannot but dissent 

From all the Church doth say of it : and yet 

I know my doubts are but temptations set 

By Satan's self, to sink my soul to hell. 

O Sire, I am a wretched Infidel." 

Then said the gentle Bishop : 

" This one thing 
Tell me, O honest Master, do they bring 
Thee pleasure, these dark doubts?" 

" O, no ! my Sire," 
The weeping Master said : " they burn like fire 
Within my bones." 

" And could thy lips to speak 
Thy doubts be bought by gold? And would 'st thou 

seek 
To shake a brother's faith?" 

" I, Sire ! " exclaimed 
The Master. " I ! I would be bruised and maimed, 
And torn from limb to limb, ere I would say 
Such words." 

Then said the Bishop, smiling : " Lay 
Aside now for a space thy grief and fear, 
And listen. Soon my meaning will appear, 
Though it be strangely hid at first below 
My words. 

Thou know'st that war is raging now 



A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY PARABLE. 125 

Between the King of England and of France ; 
Thou know'st that of our castles greatest chance 
Of loss has La Rochelle, there in Poitou, 
Lying so near the border. If to you 
The King had given La Rochelle to hold, 
And unto me — no less true man and bold, 
Perhaps — the Castle of Laon to keep, 
Far in the heart of France, where I might sleep 
All day, all night, unharmed, if so I chose, — 
So safe beyond the reach of all our foes 
Lies Laon, — when the war is ended, who 
Ought from the King to have the most thanks? 



You, 



Who La Rochelle had saved by bloody fights. 
Or I, who spent in Laon peaceful nights? " 
" In faith, Sire, I, who guarded La Rochelle ! " 
The wondering Master cried. 

" So, then, I tell 
Thee," said the Bishop, in most gentle tone, 
" My heart is like the Castle of Laon. 
Temptations, doubts, cannot my soul assail. 
Therefore, I say that thou, who dost prevail 
Against such foes of Satan's mustering. 
Art four times pleasing to the Heavenly King, 
Where I am once ; and thy good fortress, kept, 
Shall win thee glory such as saints have wept 
To win ! Go, joyful ! Put thy sorrow by. 
Thou art far dearer to the Lord than I." 
Scarce dared the Master trust such words as these 
But silent, grateful, fell upon his knees 
Until the Bishop blessed him. Then he went 
Away in solemn wonder and content. 



126 POEMS. 

They lie in graves, the saints who knew this tale, 
The King, the Bishop, and the Seneschal, 
And he who doubted, — rest their souls in peace ! 
And even mention of their names men cease 
To make. But, knowing all, as they must know, 
Of God, who roam his universes through, 
Untrammelled spirits, they could tell to men 
To-day no deeper truth than was told then. 
To cheer and comfort him who fighteth well 
To save a heart besieged like La Rochelle. 



FORM. 



HIDDEN secret of all things ! 

Thy triumph, most triumphant, brings 

No sound of syllable of name 

To mark the law by which it came ; 

The subtle point of difference, 

Which made the joy of joy intense, 

The grief of grief too great to bear, 

Beauty than beauty's self more fair. 

No skill does more, at best, than work 
Blindly, in hope to find where lurk 
Thy undiscovered charm and spell ; 
No prophecies thine hour foretell ; 
No hindrances thine hour avert ; 
No purpose brings thee good or hurt ; 
Thy life knows not of wish or will ; 
Inherent growths thy growth fulfil. 



MY HICKORY FIRE. 1 27 

No man dared say to curve, to line, 
" Be beautiful, by word of mine ! 
I crown thee lovely on the earth ! 
I am thy Lord of life and birth." 
Before all men the line, the curve, 
Stood suddenly, and said : 

" Preserve 
What joy ye can. O blind of eye ! 
Behold us once before ye die ! " 
O hidden secret of all things ! 
O kingdom earlier than kings ! 
Before earth was, yea, and before 
The Heavens, Eternity forbore 
All haste, waiting each sign and bond. 
For seal of thee, to set beyond 
All time's impatience the decree 
And record of thy sovereignty ! " 



MY HICKORY FIRE. 

HELPLESS body of hickory tree. 
What do I bum, in burning thee? 
Summers of sun, winters of snow, 

Springs full of sap's resistless flow ; 

All past year's joys of garnered fruits ; 

All this year's purposed buds and shoots ; 

Secrets of fields of upper air, 

Secrets which stars and planets share ; 

Light of such smiles as broad skies fling ; 

Sound of such tunes as wild winds sing ; 




POEMS. 

Voices which told where gay birds dwelt, 
Voices which told where lovers knelt ; — 

strong white body of hickory tree, 
How dare I burn all these, in thee? 

But I too bring, as to a pyre, 
Sweet things to feed thy funeral fire : 
Memories waked by thy deep spell ; 
Faces of fears and hopes which fell ; 
Faces of darlings long since dead, — 
Smiles that they smiled, and words they said ; 
Like living shapes they come and go, 
Lit by the mounting flame's red glow. 
But sacredest of all, O tree, 
Thou hast the hour my love gave me. 
Only thy rhythmic silence stirred 
While his low-whispered tones I heard ; 
By thy last gleam of flickering light 

1 saw his cheek turn red from white ; 
O cold gray ashes, side by side 

With yours, that hour's sweet pulses died ! 

But thou, brave tree, how do I know 
That through these fires thou dost not go 
As in old days the martyrs went 
Through fire which was a sacrament? 
How do I know thou dost not wait 
In longing for thy next estate ? — 
Estate of higher, nobler place. 
Whose shapes no man can use or trace. 
How do I know, if I could reach 
The secret meaning of thy speech. 



REVENUES. 129 

But I thy song of praise should hear, 
Ringing triumphant, loud, and clear, — 
The waiting angels could discern, 
And token of thy heaven learn ? 
O glad, freed soul of hickory tree, 
Wherever thine eternity, 
Bear thou with thee that hour's dear name. 
Made pure, like thee, by rites of flame ! 



REVENUES. 

SMILE to hear the little kings 

When they count up their precious things. 

And send their vaunting lists abroad, 

Of what their kingdoms can afford. 

One boasts his corn, and one his wine, 

And one his gold and silver fine ; 

One by an army, one by a fleet, 

Keeps neighbor kings beneath his feet ; 

One sets his claim to highest place 

On looms of silk and looms of lace ; 

And one shows pictures of old saints 

In lifelike tints of wondrous paints ; 

And one has quarries of white stone 

From which rare statue shapes have grown ; 

And so, by dint of wealth or grace. 

Striving to keep the highest place, 

They count and show their precious things. 

The little race of little kings. 
9 




FOEMS. 

" O little kings ! " I long to say, 
"Who counts God's revenues to-day? 
Who knows on all the hills and coasts 
Names of the captains of his hosts? 
What eye has seen the half of gold 
His smallest mine has in its hold? 
What figures tell one summer's cost 
Of fabrics which are torn and tost 
To clothe his myriads of trees? 
Who reckons, in the sounding seas, 
The shining corals, wrought and graved, 
With which his ocean floors are paved? 
Who knows the numbers or the names 
Of colors in his sunset flames? 
What table measures, marking weight, 
What chemistries can estimate 
One single banquet for his birds? " 
Then, mocked by all which utmost words 
And utmost thoughts can frame or reach, 
My heart finds tears its only speech. 
In ecstasy, part joy, part pain, 
Where fear and wonder half restrain 
Love's gratitude, I lay my ear 
Close to the ground, and listening hear 
This noiseless, ceaseless, boundless tide 
Of earth's great wealth, on every side. 
Rolling and pouring up to break 
At feet of God, who will not take 
Nor keep among his heavenly things 
So much as tithe of all it brings ; 
But instant turns the costly wave. 
Gives back to earth all that it gave, 



A BURIAL SERVICE. 131 

Spends all his universe of power 
And pomp to deck one single hour 
Of time, and then in largess free, 
Unasked, bestows the hour on me. 



A BURIAL SERVICE. 



O this burying 
We come alone, — you and I, — not with 
our dead, 

But with our dearest living ; O, could mortal tread 
Be unfaltering ! 

God knows how we love it. 
This we have come to bury; the eyes smile, — life's 

best wine 
The hands hold out ! Darling, shall it be yours, or 
mine, 

To lay the first sod above it? 

But no decaying 
Can reach it in this sepulchre, whose stone 
Our hearts must make ! To an exceeding glory grown, 

This grief, outweighing. 

Not even regretting. 
It will await us ! Thank God, not being sown 
In any dishonor, it will await its own, 

Never forcretting ! 




132 POEMS. 

To Christ's protection 
Now let us leave it, — the tomb and the key ! He 
Will remember us, if there may ever be 

Resurrection ! 



A PARABLE. 

AR in the wood I found a vine, so sweet 
Of flower and leaf that, loving it, I stayed 
To learn its secret. Thick around its feet 
Grew thorny briers, and tangled saplings made 
On every side of it too dark a shade. 
One tendril by a dead branch held. The rest 
Were folded like proud arms upon its breast. 

The rough wind beat it down ; it did not break. 
But, lying low until the storm went by, 
Lifted its head again. Still it would take 
No help ; but, shaking off with scornful eye 
The dust, rose slowly, looking to the sky, 
Borne up by hidden forces of its own, 
And stood again erect, a vine, alone. 

Far in the wood I whispered then, afraid 

The question showed not all my love, " O vine. 

Brave vine, so sweet and yet so strong, what made 

It easy unto thee? No sun can shine 

To warm thee in this cold, unwholesome shade. 

Why standest thou apart from all the rest. 

Thy slender proud arms folded on thy breast ? " 



FRIENDS. 133 

Filling the wood, this subtile whisper then 
My reverent listening heard : 

" My love, the Oak, 
Has died. Never before his name to men 
Who, idly questioning, passed by, I spoke. 
But thou, — thou lov'st like me ; thy secret woke 
My own. Thou know'st to a less lordly thing 
The tendrils torn from oaks will never cling." 



FRIENDS. 

TO 

A. E. P. 

E rode a day, from east, from west. 
To meet. A year had done its best, 
By absence, and by loss of speech, 
To put beyond the other's reach 
Each heart and life ; but, drawing nigh, 
" Ah ! it is you ! " " Yes, it is I ! " 
We said ; and love had been blasphemed 
And slain in each had either deemed 
Need of more words, or joy more plain 
When eyes had looked in eyes again : 
Ah friendship, stronger in thy might 
Than time and space, as faith than sight ! 
Rich festival with thy red wine 
My friend and I will keep in courts divine ! 





134 POEMS. 



THE ROYAL BEGGAR. 

MARVEL strange ! outside the palace doors, 
And begging humbly from the palace stores, 
He stands and waits ; and when a paltry 
crust 
Is flung, he stoops and picks it from the dust. 
And, smiling through his tears, clasps to his breast 
The niggard boon ; and, for the moment blest 
And fed, is grateful, though the ruby wine 
And milk and honey which, by right divine. 
Are his, his only, and the crown of gold 
God wrought for him, are to his rightful hold 
Refused ! 

Ah Love, dear Love, nowhere on earth 
Wanders uncrowned thy peer of royal birth ! 
Ah Love, great Love ! Denied, thrust out in vain. 
Kingly, though beggared ! Blest through all the pain ! 



MARCH. 




ENEATH the sheltering walls the thin snow 
clings, — 
Dead winter's skeleton, left bleaching, white, 



Disjointed, crumbling, on unfriendly fields. 
The inky pools surrender tardily 
At noon, to patient herds, a frosty drink 
From jagged rims of ice ; a subtle red 
Of life is kindling every twig and stalk 



APRIL. 135 

Of lowly meadow growths \ the willows wrap 
Their stems in furry white ; the pines grow gray 
A little in the biting wind ; mid-day 
Brings tiny burrowed creatures, peeping out 
Alert for sun. 

Ah March ! we know thou art 
Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, 
And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets ! 



APRIL. 

OBINS call robins in tops of trees ; 

Doves follow doves, with scarlet feet ; 
Frolicking babies, sweeter than these. 
Crowd green corners where highways meet. 

Violets stir and arbutus wakes, 

Claytonia's rosy bells unfold ; 
Dandelion through the meadow makes 

A royal road, with seals of gold. 

Golden and snowy and red the flowers, 
Golden, snowy, and red in vain ; 

Robins call robins through sad showers ; 
The white dove's feet are wet with rain. 

For April sobs while these are so glad, 
April weeps while these are so gay, — 

Weeps like a tired child who had, 
Playing with flowers, lost its way. 




1x6 



POEMS. 




MAY. 

HE voice of one who goes before to make 
The paths of June more beautiful, is thine, 
Sweet May ! Without an envy of her crown 
And bridal ; patient stringing emeralds 
And shining rubies for the brows of birch 
And maple ; flinging garlands of pure white 
And pink, which to their bloom add prophecy ; 
Gold cups o'er-filling on a thousand hills 
And caUing honey-bees ; out of their sleep 
The tiny summer harpers with bright wings 
Awaking, teaching them their notes for noon ; — 
O May, sweet-voiced one, going thus before, 
Forever June may pour her warm red wine 
Of life and passion, — sweeter days are thine ! 



THE SIMPLE KING. 



HE king, the royal, simple king, 
Whom in bold lovingness I sing, 
Will not be buried when he dies, 
As kings are buried. Where he lies. 
No regal monument will show ; 
No worldly pilgrim-feet will go ; 
No heraldry, with blazoned sign. 
Will keep the record of his line. 
No man will know his kingdom's bound ; 
No man his subjects' grief will sound. 
His crown will not lie low with him ; 
His crown will never melt nor dim. 



THE SIMPLE KING. 137 

This king, this royal, simple king, 

Whose kingliness I kneel to sing, 

Looks on all other men with eyes 

Which are as calm as suns that rise 

Alike, and bring an equal gain 

To just and unjust. Like soft rain 

His gentle kindliness, but deep 

As waters, in which oceans keep 

Their treasures. Silent, warm, and white 

As mid-day is his love's great light ; 

But in its faithful summer saves 

For every smallest flower that waves 

Such shelter that it cannot die 

Nor droop, while love's fierce noons pass by. 

This king, this royal, simple king. 
Whose kingliness 1 cannot sing, 
Speaks words which are decrees, because 
They come as questions, not as laws. 
Himself devoutest worshipper 
At Truth's great shrine, his least acts stir 
The people's hearts, as when of old 
The High Priest, lifting veil of gold. 
Came from the ark's most sacred place, 
And only by his shining face 
Revealed to them without that he 
Had seen the Godhead bodily. 
Men serve him ; but while they obey 
Feel no oppression in the sway. 
His royal hand is burdened too ; 
No load of theirs to him is new ; 
No stiner or stiorma in a bond 



13S FOE ATS. 

To him whose vision looks beyond 

All names and shapes of numbered days, 

All accidents of human ways, 

And, superseding signs and shrifts 

Of all allegiances, lifts 

Service to Freedom's regal plane 

Beyond compulsion or disdain. 

This king, this royal, simple king, 
Whose kingliness I love and sing. 
Has not much silver or much gold : 
Told as kings' treasuries are told, 
Beggar's estate he must confess. 
But all the lavish wilderness 
Sets state for him. Tall pine-trees bend ; 
Strange birds sing songs which never end. 
The sunset and the sunrise sweep 
Backward and forward swift, to keep 
Fresh glory round his pathway. Then, 
Of sudden men discover, when 
They journey thither by his side. 
What pomp and splendor are supplied 
By Nature's smallest, subtlest thing. 
To hail and crov/n the simple king. 
Yea ! and the dull and stony street. 
And walls within which rich men meet, 
Cities, and all they compass, grow 
Significant, when to and fro 
The simple king, unrecognized, 
Unenvious, and unsurprised. 
Walks smilingly, and as he treads 
Unconscious benediction spreads. 



THE SINGER'S FRIENDS. 1 39 

Ah ! king, thou royal, simple king ! 
Not as by any grave I sing ; 
Neither by any present throne ; 
King crowned to-day, king who hast gone, 
In kinglmess one and the same ! 
The house runs not by race or name ; 
No day but sees, no land but knows ; 
The kmgdom lasts, the kmgdom grows ; 
God holds earth dearer and more dear, 
God's sons come nearer and more near. 



THE SINGER'S FRIENDS. 

E roamed the earth with lonely feet ; 
No homestead lured him back ; 
Lands are so full ; hfe is so sweet ; 
Such skies and suns forever meet 
To make each day's great joy complete ; 
'T was strange that he so much must lack. 

'T was stranger yet that joy could still 

His bosom overflow ; 
That smallest things his soul could fill 
With ecstasy and song, whose thrill 
No pain could hinder or could chill. 

As lonely he went to and fro. 

But ever if there came a day, 
Which on his joy and song 




140 POEMS. 

So heavy load of sorrow lay 
That heart and voice could not obey, 
And feet refused the lonely way, 
So lonely, and so hard, and long, 

It always chanced, — though chance is not, 

The word when God befriends, — 
That on such days to him was brought 
Echo from some old song, forgot. 
Which sudden made his lonely lot 
Seem cast for worthier, sweeter ends. 

Some stranger whose sad eyes were wet 
With tears, would take his hands, 

Saying, " O Singer, my great debt 

To thee I never can forget. 

My grief in thy grief's words was set. 
And comforted forever stands." 

Or else he heard, borne on the air 

Where merry music rang, 
Making the fair day still more fair, 
Lifting the burden off of care. 
Old words of his that did their share. 

While happy people laughed and sang« 

Or else, — O, sacredest of all. 

And sweetest recompense, — 
Love used his words, its love to call 
By name : of his dead joy, the thrall 
Waked live joy still, and could forestall 
Love's utmost passion's subtlest sense. 



DOUBT. 141 

So when at last, in lonely grave, 

He laid his lonely head, 
No loving heart more tears need crave ; 
Nowhere more sacred grasses wave ; 
All human hearts to whom he gave 

Grieved like friends' hearts when he was dead. 



DOUBT. 



HEY bade me cast the thing away, 
They pointed to my hands all bleeding, 
They listened not to all my pleading ; 



The thing I meant I could not say ; 
I knew that I should rue the day 
If once I cast that thing away. 

I grasped it firm, and bore the pain ; 
The thorny husks I stripped and scattered ; 
If I could reach its heart, what mattered 

If other men saw not my gain, 

Or even if I should be slain? 

I knew the risks ; I chose the pain. 

O, had I cast that thing away, 
I had not found what most I cherish, 
A faith without which I should perish, — 
The faith which, like a kernel, lay 
Hid in the husks which on that day 
My instinct would not throw away ! 



142 POEMS. 



FORGIVEN. 



DREAMED so dear a dream of you last 
night ! 

I thought you came. I was so glad, so gay, 
I whispered, " Those were foolish words to say : 
I meant them not. I cannot bear the sight 
Of your dear face. I cannot meet the light 
Of your dear eyes upon me. Sit, I pray, — 
Sit here beside me : turn your look away, 
And lay your cheek on mine." Till morning bright 
We sat so, and we did not speak. I knew 
All was forgiven ; so I nestled there 
With your arms round me. Swift the sweet hours flew. 
At last I waked, and sought you everywhere. 
How long, dear, think you, that my glad cheek will 
Burn, — as it burns with your cheek's pressure still ? 



THIS SUMMER. 

THOUGHT I knew all Summer knows, 

So many summers I had been 
Wed to Summer. Could I suppose 
One hidden beauty still lurked in 
Her days? that she might still disclose 
New secrets, and new homage win ? 




Could new looks flit across the skies ? 
Could water ripple one new sound ? 



THIS SUMMER. 1 43 

Could stranger bee or bird that flies 

With yet new languages be found, 
To bring me, to my glad surprise, 

Message from yet remoter bound? 

O sweet " this Summer ! " Songs which sang 

Summer before no longer mean 
The whole of summer. Bells which rang 

But minutes have marked years between. 
Purple the grapes of Autumn hang : 

My sweet " this Summer " still is green. 

" This Summer " still, — forgetting all 
Before and since and aye, — I say. 

And shall say, when the deep snows fall, 
And cold suns mark their shortest day. 

New calendar, my heart will call ; 

" This Summer " still ! Summer alway 1 

And when God's next sweet world we reach, 
And the poor words we stammered here 

Are fast forgot, while angels teach 
Us spirit language quick and clear. 

Perhaps some words of earthly speech 
We still shall speak, and still hold dear. 

And if some time in upper air 

On swiftest wings we sudden meet. 

And pause with answering smiles which share 
Our joy, I think that we shall greet 

Each other thus : " This world is fair ; 
But ah ! that Summer too was sweet ! " 



144 POEMS. 



TRYST. 




OMEWHERE thou awaitest, 
And I, with lips unkissed, 
Weep that thus to latest 
Thou puttest off our tryst ! 



The golden bowls are broken, 

The silver cords untwine ; 
Almond flowers in token 

Have bloomed, — that I am thine ! 

Others who would fly thee 

In cowardly alarms, 
Who hate thee and deny thee, 

Thou foldest in thine arms ! 

How shall I entreat thee 

No longer to withhold ? 
I dare not go to meet thee, 

O lover, far and cold ! 

O lover, whose lips chilling 

So many lips have kissed, 
Come, even if unv/illing, 

And keep thy solemn tryst ! 



THE MAGIC ARMORY. 145 




THE MAGIC ARMORY. 



O man can shut the open door ; 
Strange hieroglyphs of mystic lore 
Are writ on it from beam to sill ; 

The gleams and shapes of weapons fill 

Its silent chambers : field and fray 

Of centuries have borne away 

Its armor to their victories, 

And yet to-day the armor lies 

Unstained and bright and whole and good, 

For each man's utmost hardihood. 

All men go freely out and in, 

And choose their arms to fight and win ; 

But one man goes with silly ha.nds, 

And helpless, halting, choosing stands. 

And from the glittering, deadly steels, 

Fits him with clumsy sword, and deals 

A feeble, witless, useless blow, 

Which hurts no friend and helps no foe. 

Close by his side his brother makes 

Swift choice, unerringly, and takes 

From those same chambers hilt and blade 

With which more magic sword is made 

Than that far-famed which armed the hand 

Of Lion-Heart in Eastern land. 



146 FOEMS. 

So fight and fray the centuries, 

The right and truth with wrong and Ues ; 

So men go freely out and in, 

And choose their arms, and lose and win ; 

And none can shut the open door. 

All writ with signs of mystic lore, 

Where weapons stout and old and good 

For each man's utmost hardihood 

Lie ready, countless, priceless, free, 

Within the magic armory. 



LIFTED OVER. 

S tender mothers guiding baby steps, 
When places come at which the tiny feet 
Would trip, lift up the little ones in arms 
Of love, and set them down beyond the harm. 
So did Our Father watch the precious boy, 
Led o'er the stones by me, who stumbled of 
Myself, but strove to help my darling on : 
He saw the sweet limbs faltering, and saw 
Rough ways before us, where my arms would fail ; 
So reached from heaven, and lifting the dear child. 
Who smiled in leaving me. He put him down 
Beyond all hurt, beyond my sight, and bade 
Him wait for me ! Shall I not then be glad, 
And, thanking God, press on to overtake ? 





MY HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS. 147 



MY HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS. 

T is so old, the date is dim ; 
I hear the wise man vexing him 
With effort vain to count and read, 
But to his words I give small heed, 
Except of pity that so late 
He sitteth wrangling in the gate, 
When he might come with me inside, 
And in such peace and plenty bide. 
The constant springs and summers thatch, 
With leaves that interlock and match, 
Such roof as keeps out fiercest sun 
And gentle rain, but one by one 
Lets in blue banner-gleams of sky 
As pomp of day goes marching by 
Under these roofs I lie whole days. 
Watching the steady household ways : 
Innumerable creatures come 
And go, and are far more at home 
Than I, who like dumb giant sit 
Baffled by all their work and wit. 
No smallest of them condescends 
To notice me ; their hidden ends 
They follow, and above, below, 
Across my bulky shape they go, 
With swift, sure feet, and subtle eyes, 
Too keen and cautious for surprise 
In vain I try their love to reach ; 
Not one will give me trust or speech. 



148 POEMS. 

No second look the furry bee 

Gives, as he bustles round, to me ; 

Before my eyes slim spiders take 

Their silken ladders out and make 

No halt, no secret, scaling where 

They like, and weaving scaffolds there ; 

The beaded ants prick out and in, 

Mysterious and dark and thin ; 

With glittering spears and gauzy mail 

Legions of insects dart and sail, 

Swift Bedouins of the pathless air, 

Finding rich plunder everywhere ; 

Sweet birds, with motion more serene 

Than stillest rest, soar up between 

The fleecy clouds, then, sinking slow, 

Light on my roof. I do not know 

That they are there till fluttering 

Low sounds, like the unravelling 

Of tight-knit web, their soft wings make, 

Unfurling farther flight to take. 

All through my house is set out food, 

Ready and plenty, safe and good. 

In vessels made of cunning shapes. 

Whose liquid spicy sweet escapes 

By drops at brims of yellow bowls, 

Or tips of trumpets red as coals. 

Or cornucopias pink and white. 

By millions set in circles tight ; 

Red wine turned jelly, and in moulds 

Of pointed calyx laid on folds !*: 

Of velvet green ; fruit-grains of brown. 

Like dusty shower thickly strewn 



MV HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS. 149 

On underside of fronds, and lad 
Unless one lift the carven lid ; 
And many things which in my haste 
And ignorance I reckon wacte, 
Unsightly and unclean, I fii.d 
Are but delicious food, designed 
For travellers who come each day, 
And eat, and drink, and go their way. 
I am the only one who need 
Go hungry where so many feed ; 
My birthright of protection lost, 
Because of fathers' sins the cost 
Is counted in the children's blood : 
I starve where once I might have stood 
Content and strong as bird or bee, 
Feeding like them on flower or tree. 
When I have hunger, I must rise 
And seek the poisons I despise. 
Leaving untouched on every hand 
The sweet wild foods of air and land. 
And leaving all my happier kin 
Of beasts and birds behind to win 
The great rewards which only they 
Can win who Nature's laws obey. 

Under these roofs of waving thatch, 
Lying whole days to dream and watch, 
I find myself grow more and more 
Vassal of summer than before ; 
Allegiances I thought were sworn 
For life I break with hate and scorn. 



150 POEMS. 

One thing alone I hope, desire : 

To make my human Hfe come nigher 

The Ufe these lead whose silent gaze 

Reproaches me and all my ways ; 

To glide along as they all glide, 

Submissive and unterrified. 

Without a thought of loss or gain. 

Without a jar of haste or pain, 

And go, without one quickened breath. 

Finding all realms of life, of death. 

But summer hours in sunny lands. 

To my next house not made with hands. 



MY STRAWBERRY. 

MARVEL, fruit of fruits, I pause 
To reckon thee. I ask what cause 
Set free so much of red from heats 
At core of earth, and mixed such sweets 
With sour and spice : what was that strength 
Which out of darkness, length by length, 
Spun all thy shining thread of vine, 
Netting the fields in bond as thine. 
I see thy tendrils drink by sips 
From grass and clover's smiling lips ; 
I hear thy roots dig down for wells, 
Tapping the meadow's hidden cells ; 
Whole generations of green things. 
Descended from long lines of springs. 




TRIUMPH. 15 ' 

I see make room for thee to bide 
A quiet comrade by their side \ 
I see the creeping peoples go 
Mysterious journeys to and fro, 
Treading to right and left of thee, 
Doing thee homage wonderingly. 
I see the wild bees as they fare, 
Thy cups of honey drink, but spare. 
I mark thee bathe and bathe again 
In sweet uncalendared spring rain. 
I watch how all May has of sun 
Makes haste to have thy ripeness done. 
While all her nights let dews escape 
To set and cool thy perfect shape. 
Ah, fruit of fruits, no more I pause 
To dream and seek thy hidden laws ! 
I stretch my hand and dare to taste, 
In instant of delicious waste 
On single feast, all things that went 
To make the empire thou hast spent. 



TRIUMPH. 




OT he who rides through conquered city's 
gate, 
At head of blazoned hosts, and to the sound 
Of victors' trumpets, in full pomp and state 
Of war, the utmost pitch has dreamed or found 
To which the thrill of triumph can be wound ; 
Nor he, who by a nation's vast acclaim 



152 FOEAJS. 

Is sudden sought and singled out alone, 
And while the people madly shout his name, 
Without a conscious purpose of his own, 
Is swung and lifted to the nation's throne ; 

But he who has all single-handed stood 
With foes invisible on every side, 
And, unsuspected of the multitude, 
The force of fate itself has dared, defied, 
And conquered silently. 

Ah that soul knows 
In what white heat the blood of triumph glows 



RETURN TO THE HILLS. 

IKE a music of triumph and joy 
Sounds the roll of the wheels, 
And the breath of the engine laughs out 
In loud chuckles and peals, 
Like the laugh of a man that is glad 

Coming homeward at night ; 
I lean out of the window and nod 

To the left and the right. 
To my friends in the fields and the woods ; 

Not a face do I miss ; 
The sweet asters and browned golden-rod. 

And that stray clematis. 
Of all vagabonds dearest and best, 
In most seedy estate ; 




RETURN TO THE HILLS. 1 53 

I am sure they all recognize me ; 

If I only could wait, 
I should hear all the welcome which now 

In their faces I read, 
" O true lover of us and our kin, 

We aU bid thee God speed ! " 

O my mountains, no wisdom can teach 

Me to think that ye care 
Nothing more for my steps than the rest, 

Or that they can have share 
Such as mine in your royal crown-lands. 

Unencumbered of fee ; 
In your temples with altars unhewn. 

Where redemption is free ; 
In your houses of treasure, which gold 

Cannot buy if it seek ; 
And your oracles, mystic with words, 

W^hich men lose if they speak ! 

Ah ! v.'ith boldness of lovers who wed 

I make haste to your feet. 
And as constant as lovers who die, 

My surrender repeat ; 
And I take as the right of my love. 

And I keep as its sign. 
An ineffable joy in each sense 

And new strength as from wine, 
A seal for all purpose and hope. 

And a pledge of full light. 
Like a pillar of cloud for my day, 

And of fire for my night. 



154 POEMS. 



"DOWN TO SLEEP." 




OVEMBER woods are bare and still ; 

November days are clear and bright ; 

Each noon burns up the morning's chill ; 
The morning's snow is gone by night ; 
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, 
As through the woods I reverent creep, 
Watching all things lie " down to sleep." 

I never knew before what beds. 
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch, ~ 
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads ; 
I never knew before how much 
Of human sound there is in such 
Low tones as through the forest sweep 
When all wild things lie " down to sleep." 

Each day I find new coverlids 
Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight ; 
Sometimes the viewless mother bids 
Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight ; 
I hear their chorus of " good-night ; " 
And half I smile, and half I weep. 
Listening while they lie " down to sleep." 

November woods are bare and still ; 
November days are bright and good ; 
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill ; 
Life's night rests feet which long have stood ; 
Some warm soft bed, in field or wood. 
The mother will not fail to keep, 
Where we can " lay us down to sleep." 




FALLOW. 155 



FALLOW. 

BOVE, below me, on the hill, 
Great fields of grain their fulness fill ; 
The golden fruit bends down the trees ; 

The grass stands high round mowers' knees ; 

The bee pants through the clover-beds, 

And cannot taste of half the heads ; 

The farmer stands, with greedy eyes, 

And counts his harv^est's growing size. 

Among his fields, so fair to see, 

He takes no count, no note, of me. 

I lie and bask, along the hill. 

Content and idle, idle still. 

My lazy silence never stirred 

By breathless bee or hungry bird : 

All creatures know the cribs which yield ; 

No creature seeks the fallow field. 

But to no field on all the hill 

Come sun and rain with more good-will ', 

All secrets which they bear and bring 

To wheat before its ripening, 

To clover turning purple red. 

To grass in bloom for mowers' tread, — 

They tell the same to my bare waste, 

But never once bid me to haste. 

Winter is near, and snow is sweet ; 
Who knows if they be seeds of wheat 



156 POEMS. 

Or clover, which my bosom fill ? 

Who knows how many summers will 

Be needed, spent, before one thing 

Is ready for my harvesting? 

And after all, if all were laid 

Into sure balances and weighed. 

Who knows if all the gain and get 

On which hot human hearts are set 

Do more than mark the drought and dearth 

Through vv^hich this little dust of earth 

Must lie and wait in God's great hand, 

A patient bit of fallow land ? 



LOVE'S RICH AND POOR. 

AKING me hand in hand. 
Love led me through his land. 
His land bloomed white and red ; 
His palaces were fair ; 
Glad people everywhere 
Stood smiling. 

Then Love said, — ■ 

" With all my kingdom wins, 
Never my heart begins 
To rest ; my cruel poor 
So rob my rich. Ey speech, 
By look, they overreach, 
And plunder every store. 




LOVE'S RICH AND POOR. 157 

" My rich I love, and make 
More rich, for giving's sake. 
My poor I scorn ; they choose 
Their chilly beggary ; 
My gold is ready, free, 
But they forget, refuse. 

" My rich I love. I weep 
To see them starved, to keep 
My worthless poor well fed ; 
To see them shiver, cold. 
While wrapped with fold on fold, 
The beggars sleep in bed. 

" My rich I love, and yet 
My love no law can set ; 
In vain I warn and cry ; 
They give, and give, and give ; 
The selfish beggars live. 
And smiling see them die." 

Then walking hand in hand 
With Love throughout his land, — 
Land blooming white and red, — 
I saw that everywhere, 
Where life and love looked fair. 
It was as he had said. 



158 POEMS. 



LIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN-TOPS. 



N Alpine valleys, they who watch for dawn 

Look never to the east ; but fix their eyes 

1 On loftier mountain-peaks of snow, which 



rise 
To west or south. 

Before the happy morn 
Has sent one ray of kindling red, to warn 
The sleeping clouds along the eastern skies 
That it is near, — flushing, in glad surprise, 
These royal hills, for royal watchmen born. 
Discover that God's great new day begins. 
And, shedding from their sacred brows a light 
Prophetic, wake the valley from its night. 
Such mystic light as this a great soul wins. 
Who overlooks earth's wall of griefs and sins. 
And steadfast, always, gazing on the white 
Great throne of God, can call aloud with deep. 
Pure voice of truth, to waken them who sleep. 

Bad-Gastein, Austria, 

September 9, 1S69. 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN ST. PETER'S. 

OW on the marble floor I lie : 
I am alone : 
Though friendly voices whisper nigh. 
And foreign crowds are passing by, 
I am alone. 




CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN ST. PETER'S. 159 

Great hymns float through 
The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow 
Refrain, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 

With tender joy all others thrill ; 

I have but tears : 
The false priests' voices, high and shrill. 
Reiterate the "Peace, good- will; " 

I have but tears. 

I hear anew 
The nails and scourge ; then come the low 
Sad words, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 

Close by my side the poor souls kneel ; 

I turn away ; 
Half-pitying looks at me they steal ; 
They think, because I do not feel, 

I turn away. 

Ah ! if they knew, 
How following them, where'er they go, 
I hear, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 



Above the organ's sweetest strains 

I hear the groans 
Of prisoners, who lie in chains, 
So near, and in such mortal pains, 

I hear the groans. 



l6o POEMS. 

But Christ walks through 
The dungeons of St. Angelo, 
And says, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 

And now the music sinks to sighs ; 

The lights grow dim : 
The Pastorella's melodies 
In lingering echoes float and rise ; 

The lights grow dim ; 

More clear and true, 
In this sweet silence, seem to flow 
The words, " Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do." 

The dawn swings incense, silver gray \ 

The night is past ; 
Now comes, triumphant, God's full day ; 
No priest, no church can bar its way : 

The night is past : 

How, on this blue 
Of God's great banner, blaze and glow 
The words, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do ! " 

Rome, December 26, 1868. 



TWO COMRADES. 



i6i 



WELCOME. 




TO C. C. 

ELCOME ! Perhaps the simple word says 
all. 
And yet, when from a country's earnest 
heart 
It sudden springs, quick pride and triumph start, 
Eager as love, and even hold in thrall 
Of silence love's own speech, while they recall 
How in all men's great deeds of life and art 
Their native land immortal share and part 
Must keep. 

But thou, O royal soul, how small 
Such laurels unto thee, we know who love 
Thee, and whom thou hast loved ! We dare to bring 
To thee this mite of silent offering, 
And know how it thy great, warm heart will move. 
That, dumb with joy, we find no voice as yet. 
And cannot see, because our eyes are wet ! 



T^VO COMRADES. 

TO O. W. AND H. DE K. 

S when in some green forest's depth we find 
The spot to which with idle, tinkling feet, 
Two brooks have danced all unawares to 
meet 
Each other, where at sight they interwind 




1 62 POEMS. 

Their shining arms, and loving, trusting, bind 
Themselves for life, and with a louder song 
And in a wider channel glide along ; 

As when in some great symphony we trace. 

Through deep and underlying harmonies, 

How all the notes of melody uprise. 

Lifted by answering notes in distant place. 

Fulfilling each in each the final grace, 

But shielding, keeping each from each 

The separate voices through the blended speech ; 

So when we see two human souls by fate 
Held in life's restless current side by side, 
And in their deepest nature so allied 
That each, but for the other, life's estate 
Must smaller find, a sense of joy, too great 
Almost for speech, thrills earnest souls who heed 
Their fellowship and long to say " God-speed ! " 

Two comrades such as these I know, — young, fair ; 
So fair, that choice cannot find right to choose ; 
So fair, that wish can nothing miss or lose 
In either face ; so young, their eyes still wear 
The looks with which young children trust and dare ; 
So young, the womanhood of each warm heart 
As yet finds love enough in love of Art. 

One, silent, — with a silence whose quick speech 
By subtler eloquence than any word, 
Reveals when deepest depths are touched and 
stirred, — 



TWO COMRADES. 1 63 

Reveals by color tides which mount and reach 
Her broad, white brow, as on some magic beach, 
Where only spotless, peaceful snows resist. 
Might break a crimson sea through veiling mist. 

Silent, with silence which might often make 
Dull ears believe the answer unexpressed 
Meant an assent, or acquiescent rest ; 
Silence whose earnestness dull souls mistake ; 
But silence out of which words leap and break. 
As from their sheaths swords leap and flash in sun, 
When comes the time for swords, and truce is done ; 

Silence which to all finer spirits is 

Full of such revelation and delight 

As Nature's lovers find and feel in sight 

Of her most sacred, subtle silences ; 

Silence of mountain lake, untouched by breeze ; 

Silence of lily's heart, cool, white, and pure ; 

Silence of crystal growths, patient and sure. 

The other, earnest equally, but bom 
With veins made for a tropic current's flow ; 
Intolerant if fate seem cold, seem slow ; 
Full of a noble, restless, dauntless scorn ; 
Unjust to night, for eager love of morn ; 
Unjust to small things for the love of great ; 
Too faithless of all good which tarries late. 

But yet through all this tropic current's heat, 
Through all this scorn of failures and delays, 



1 64 POEMS. 

Lives faithfulness which never disobeys 
The smallest law of patience, and, more sweet 
Than patience' self, works on to its complete 
Fulfilling, wresting thus from alien powers 
A double guerdon for the conquered hours. 

In vain among all rich and beauteous things 

With which the realms of beauteous Nature teems 

I look for one which fair and fitting seems 

As simile for her swift soul, which wings 

Itself more swift than bird can fly, which springs 

And soars like fountain, but finds no content 

At levels whence its own bright waters went. 

Only one thing there is whose name is name 
Also for her : swift, restless, patient fire. 
Which, burning always, loses no desire ; 
Which leaps and soars and blazes all the same, 
If spices or dull fagots feed its flame ; 
Swift, restless, patient fire, which saves and turns 
Into more precious things all things it burns. 

O comrades, sweet to know and hear and see. 

Whom I have dared to paint, each empty phrase 

But mocks my thought ; no dreamy singer's praise, 

No flattering voice of hope and prophecy 

Of what the future years shall bring and be. 

No stranger's recognition do ye need ! 

Ah ! comrades, sweet to hear and see, " God-speed ! " 




EXPECTANCY. 165 



DEMETER. 

LEGEND of foul shame to motherhood ! 

How doubly orphaned ignorance which 
wrought 

Such lale ; which deemed a mother's soul had bought 
One healing for her woe in that she could 
Strike other mothers desolate ; — made good 
Her loss by theirs, unpitying while they sought 
As she had sought, weeping and finding nought 
But cruel empty places where had stood 
The children. 

Ah, tnie motherhood, bereft, 
Finds only joy in thought that joy is left 
For other mothers : smihng, it abides 
In loneHness, a little way apart, 
And from all happy mothers gladly hides, 
And veils the chilly winter in its heart. 



EXPECTANCY. 




ilERPETUAL dawn makes glorious all hills ; 
Perpetual altar-feast sets fresh shew-bread ; 
Perpetual symphony swells overhead ; 



Perpetual revelation pours and fills 

For every eye and ear and soul which wills 

And waits, with will and waiting which are wed 

Into true harmony, like that which led 

The forces under which, with silent thrills, 

Earth's subtile life began. 




1 66 POEMS. 

Ah, on the brink 
Of each new age of great eternity, I think, 
After the ages have all countless grown. 
Our souls will poise and launch with eager wing. 
Forgetting blessedness already known. 
In sweet impatience for God's next good thing. 



BELATED. 

N a September day I came 
Seeking that flower of sweetest name 
Of all, from which the lavish June 
With boundless fragrance fills the noon, 
In woods where her best blossoms hide. 
" O sweet Twin-Flower ! " I longing cried, 
Hopeless but eager, " is there still 
One tiny pink bell left? And will 
Thy guardian fairy condescend 
To guide my feet, that I may bend, 
In reverent and fond delight, 
Once more at the transcendent sight? " 
The spicy woods were still and cool ; 
In many a little mossy pool 
Bright leaves were floating round and round ; 
The partridge mother's watchful sound, 
The sighs of dying leaves that fell. 
Were all that broke the silent spell. 
In mats and tangles everywhere, 
The Twin-Flower vines lay, green and fair, 
With subtle beauty all their own, 
Wreathing each hillock and each stone, 



BELATED. 167 

Stretching in slender coiling shoot, 

Far out of sight of parent root, 

Making white silken fibres fast 

To all the mosses as they passed ; 

But trembling, empty, withered, bare, 

Stood all the thread-like flower-stems there. 

"Too late," I said, and rambled on, 

Sadder because the flowers were gone, 

Yet glad, and laden with green vines 

Of everything that climbs and twines ; 

With glossy ferns, and snowy seeds 

Strung thick on scarlet stems, like beads, 

And Tiarellas packed between 

In mottled, scalloped disks of green, 

And purple Asters fit for hem 

Of High-Priest's robes, and, shading them 

Like sunlit tree-tops waving broad. 

Great branching stalks of Golden-Rod. 

So, glad and laden, through the wood 

I went, till on its edge I stood. 

When at my ver}' feet I saw. 

With sudden joy, half joy, half awe. 

Low nestled in a dead log's cleft 

One pale Twin-Flower, the last one left. 

So near my hasty step had been 

To trampling it, it quivered in 

The air, and like a fairy bell 

Swung to and fro, with notes that fell 

No doubt on hidden ears more fine. 

And more of kin to it than mine. 

" O dear belated thing ! " I cried, 

And knelt like worshipper beside 

The mossy log. The wood, so still. 



1 68 POEMS. 

With sudden echo seemed to fill. 
Repeated on each side I heard 
In soft rebuke my thoughtless word, 
" Belated ! " 

No ! ah, never yet 
The smallest reckoning was set 
Too slow, too fast, by Nature's hand. 
Her hours appointed faithful stand. 
Her million doors wide-open stay. 
Love cannot lose nor leave his way, 
Comes not too soon, comes not too late. 
Twin- Flowers and hearts their lovers wait. 



TO AN UNKNOWN LADY. 

There lived a lady who was lovelier 
Than anything that my poor skill may paint, — 
Though I would follovir round the world till faint 

I fell, for just one little look at her. 

Who said she seemed like this or that did err: 
Like her dear self she was, alone, — no taint 
From touch of mortal or of earth ; blest saint 

Serene, with many a faithful worshipper ! 
There is no poet's poesy would not, 

When laid against the whiteness of her meek, 
Proud, solemn face, make there a pitiful blot. 

It is so strange that I can never speak 
Of her without a tear. O, I forgot ! 

This surely may fall blameless on that cheek ! 

From The Riddle of Lovers, Scrihner's Monthly for Jims, 1873. 

KNOW a lady — no, I do not know 
Her face, her voice ; I do not know her 
name : 

And yet such sudden, subtle knowledge came 
To me of her one day, that I am slow 
To think that if I met her I should go 




TO AN UNKNOWN LADY. 169 

Amiss in greeting her. Such sweet, proud shame 
In every look would tell her hidden fame 

Whose poet lover, singing, loves her so 
That all his songs unconsciously repeat 

The fact of her, no matter what he sings, 

The color and the tone of her in things 
Remotest, and the presence of her, sweet 
And strong to hold him lowest at her feet, 

When most he soars on highest sunlit wings. 

I bless thee, Lady whom I do not know ! 

I thank God for thy unseen, beauteous face. 

And lovely soul, which make this year of grace 
In all our land so full of grace to grow ; 
As years were, solemn centuries ago. 

When lovers knew to set in stateliest place 

Their mistresses, and, for their sake, no race 
Disdained or feared to run, they loved them so. 

Reading the verses v/hich I know are thine, 
My heart grows reverent, as on holy ground. 

I think of many an unnamed saintly shrine 
I saw in Old World churches, hung around 

With pictured scrolls and gifts in grateful sign 
Of help which sore-pressed souls of men had found. 

O sweetest immortality, which pain 
Of Love's most bitter ecstasy can buy, 
Sole immortality which can defy 
Earth's power on earth's own ground, and never wane, 
All other ways, hearts breaking, try in vain. 
All fire and flood and moth and rust outvie 
Love's artifice. The sculptor's marbles lie 




170 POEMS. 

In shapeless fragments ; and to dust again 

The painter's hand had scarcely turned, before 

His colors faded. But the poet came, 

Giving to her from whom he took, his fame, 
Placing her than the angels little lower, 
And centuries cannot harm her any more 

Than they can pale the stars which heard her name. 



A WILD ROSE IN SEPTEMBER. 

WILD red rose, what spell has stayed 
Till now thy summer of delights? 

Where hid the south wind when he laid 
His heart on thine, these autumn nights ? 

O wild red rose 1 Two faces glow 
At sight of thee, and two hearts share 

All thou and thy south wind pan know 
Of sunshine in this autumn air. 

O sweet wild rose ! O strong south wind ! 

The sunny roadside asks no reasons 
Why we such secret summer find, 

Forgetting calendars and seasons ! 

Alas ! red rose, thy petals wilt ; 

Our loving hands tend thee in vain ; 
Our thoughtless touch seems like a guilt ; 

Ah, could we make thee live again ! 

Yet joy, wild rose ! Be glad, south wind ! 

Immortal wind ! immortal rose ! 
Ye shall live on, in two hearts shrined, 

With secrets which no words disclose. 



THE SIGN OF THE DAISY. 171 



AN ARCTIC QUEST. 



PROUDLY name their names who bravely 

sail 
To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas ! 
Bring money and bring ships, and on strong knees 
Pray prayers so strong that not one word can fail 
To pierce God's listening heart ! 

Rigid and pale, 
The lost men's bodies, waiting, drift and freeze; 
Yet shall their solemn dead lips tell to these 
Who find them secrets mighty to prevail 
On farther, darker, icier seas. 

I go 
Alone, unhelped, unprayed-for. Perishing 
For years in realms of more than Arctic snow, 
My heart has lingered. 

Will the poor dead thing 
Be sign to guide past bitter flood and floe, 
To open sea, some strong heart triumphing.'* 



THE SIGN OF THE DAISY. 

LL summer she scattered the daisy leaves ; 
They only mocked her as they fell. 
She said : " The daisy but deceives ; 
There is no virtue in its spell. 
* He loves me not,' ' he loves me well,' 
One story no two daisies tell." 




172 POEMS. 

Ah, foolish heart, which waits and grieves 
Under the daisy's mocking spell ! 

But summer departed, and came again. 

The daisies whitened every hill ; 
Her heart had lost its last year's pain, 

Her heart of love had had its fill, 
And held love's secrets at its will. 

The daisies stood untouched and still. 
No message in that snowy rain 

To one whose heart had had its fill ! 

So never the daisy's sweet sign deceives. 

Though no two will one story tell ; 
The glad heart sees the daisy leaves. 

But thinks not of their hidden spell, 
Heeds not which lingered and which fell. 

" He loves me ; yes, he loves me well.'- 
Ah, happy heart which sees, believes 1 

This is the daisy's secret spell ! 



VINTAGE. 

EFORE the time of grapes. 

While they altered in the sun, 
And out of the time of grapes. 
When vintage songs were done, — 

From secret southern spot. 

Whose warmth not a mortal knew ; 
From shades which the sun forgot, 

Or could not struggle through, — 




LAST WORDS. 1 73 

Wine sweeter than first wine, 
She gave him by drop, by drop ; 

Wine stronger than seal could sign, 
She poured and did not stop. 

Soul of my soul, the shapes 

Of the things of earth are one ; 

Rememberest thou the grapes 
I brought thee in the sun? 

And darest thou still drink 

Wine stronger than seal can sign ? 

And smilest thou to think 
Eternal vintage thine? 

LAST WORDS. 

EAR hearts, whose love has been so sweet to 
know, 
That I am looking backward as I go. 
Am lingering while I haste, and in this rain 
Of tears of joy am mingUng tears of pain ; 
Do not adorn with costly shrub, or tree. 
Or flower, the little grave which shelters me. 
Let the wild wind-sown seeds grow up unharmed. 
And back and forth all summer, unalarmed. 
Let all the tiny, busy creatures creep ; 
Let the sweet grass its last year's tangles keep ; 
And when, remembering me, you come some day 
And stand there, speak no praise, but only say, 
" How she loved us ! 'T was that which made her 

dear ! " 
Those are the words that I shall joy to hear. 




174 POEMS. 



A DREAM. 



DREAMED that I was dead and crossed the 
heavens, — 
Heavens after heavens with burning feet and 
swift, — 
And cried : " O God, where art Thou ? I left one 
On earth, whose burden I would pray Thee hft." 

I was so dead I wondered at no thing, — 
Not even that the angels slowly turned 

Their faces, speechless, as I hurried by 

(Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned) ; 

Nor, at the first, that I could not find God, 

Because the heavens stretched endlessly like space. 

At last a terror seized my very soul ; 

I seemed alone in all the crowded place. 

Then, sudden, one compassionate cried out, 

Though like the rest his face from me he turned. 

As I were one no angel might regard 

(Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned) : 

" No more in heaven than earth will he find God 
Who does not know his loving mercy swift 

But waits the moment consummate and ripe, 
Each burden from each human soul to hft." 




FREEDOM. 175 

Though I was dead, I died again for shame ; 

Lonely, to flee from heaven again I turned ; 
The ranks of angels looked away from me 

(Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned). 



DANGER. 

PTH what a childish and short-sighted sense 
Fear seeks for safety ; reckons up the days 
Of danger and escape, the hours and ways 
Of death ; it breathless flies the pestilence ; 
It walls itself in towers of defence ; 
By land, by sea, against the storm it lays 
Down barriers ; then, comforted, it says : 
" This spot, this hour is safe." Oh, vain pretence ! 
Man born of man knows nothing when he goes ; 
The winds blow where they list, and will disclose 
To no man which brings safety, which brings risk. 
The mighty are brought low by many a thing 
Too small to name. Beneath the daisy's disk 
Lies hid the pebble for the fatal sling. 



FREEDOM. 



HAT freeman knoweth freedom? Never he 
Whose father's fathers through long lives 
have reigned 



O'er kingdoms which mere heritage attained. 
Though from his youth to age he roam as free 



176 POEMS. 

As winds, he dreams not freedom's ecstasy. 
But he whose birth was in a nation chained 
For centuries ; where every breath was drained 
From breasts of slaves which knew not there could be 
Such thing as freedom, — he beholds the light 
Burst, dazzling ; though the glory blind his sight 
He knows the joy. Fools laugh because he reels 
And wields confusedly his infant will ; 
The wise man watching with a heart that feels 
Says : " Cure for freedom's harms is freedom still." 



THE GODS SAID LOVE IS BLIND. 

HE gods said Love is blind. The earth was 
young 
With foolish, youthful laughter when it 
heard ; 
It caught and spoke the letter of the words, 
And from that time till now hath said and sung, 
" Oh, Love is blind ! The falsest face and tongue 
Can cheat him, once his passion's thrill is stirred : 
He is so blind, poor Love ! " 

Strange none demurred 
At this, nor saw how hollow false it rang. 
When all men know that sightless men can tell 
Unnumbered things which vision cannot find. 
Powers of the air are leagued to guide them well ; 
And things invisible weave clew and spell 
By which all labyrinths they safely wind. 
Ah, we were lost, if Love had not been blind ! 




THE FIR-TREE AND THE BROOK. 177 



THE FIR-TREE AND THE BROOK. 




HE Fir-Tree looked on stars, but loved the 
Brook ! 
'' O silver- voiced ! if thou wouldst wait, 
My love can bravely woo." All smiles forsook 
The Brook's white face. " Too late ! 
Too late ! I go to wed the sea. 
I know not if my love would curse or bless thee. 
I may not, dare not, tarry to caress thee, 
Oh, do not follow me ! " 

The Fir-Tree moaned and moaned till spring ; 

Then laughed in maniac joy to feel 

Early one day, the woodmen of the King 

Sign him with sign of burning steel, 

The first to fall. " Now flee 

Thy swiftest, Brook ! Thy love may curse or bless 

me, 
I care not, if but once thou dost caress me, 

Brook, I follow thee ! " 

All torn and bruised with mark of axe and chain, 

Hurled down the dizzy slide of sand. 

Tossed by great waves in ecstasy of pain, 

And rudely thrown at last to land, 

The Fir-Tree heard : " Oh, see 

With what fierce love it is I must caress thee ! 

1 warned thee I might curse, and never bless thee. 
Why did'st thou follow me? " 



178 POEMS. 

All Stately set with spar and brace and rope, 

The Fir-Tree stood and sailed, and sailed. 

In wildest storm when all the ship lost hope, 

The Fir-Tree never shook nor quailed. 

Nor ceased from saying, " Free 

Art thou, O Brock ! But once thou hast caressed 

me ; 
For life, for death, thy love has cursed or blessed me ; 
Behold, I follow thee ! " 

Lost in a night, and no man left to tell. 

Crushed in the giant icebergs' play, 

The ship went down without a song, a knell. 

Still drifts the Fir-Tree night and day ; 

Still moans along the sea 

A voice : " O Fir-Tree ! thus must I possess thee ; 

Eternally, brave love, will I caress thee, 

Dead for the love of me ! " 



A ROSE-LEAF. 




ROSE-LEAF on the snowy deck, 

The high wind whirling it astern ; 
Nothing the wind could know or reck : 



Why did the King's eye thither turn? 

" The Queen has walked here ! " hoarse he cried. 

The courtiers, stunned, turned red, turned white ; 
No use if they had stammered, lied ; 

Aghast they fled his angry sight. 



A WOUIAN'S BATTLE. 179 

Kings' wives die quick, wlien kings go mad ; 

To death how fair and grave she goes ! 
What if the king knew now, slie had 

Sliut in her liand a httle rose? 

And men die quick when kings have said ; 

Bleeding, dishonored, fiung apart 
In outcast lield a man lies dead 

With rose-leaves warm upon his heart. 



A WOMAN'S BATTLE. 

EAR foe, I know thou 'It win the fight. 
I know thou hast the stronger bark, 
And thou art sailing in the light, 
While I am creeping in the dark. 
Thou dost not dream that I am crying, 
As I come up with colors flying. 




I clear away my wounded, slain, 

With strength like frenzy, strong and swift ; 
I da not feel the tug and strain, 

Though dead are heav}'-, hard to lift. 
If I looked in their faces dying, 
I could not keep my colors flying. 

Dear foe, it will be short. — our fight, — 
Though lazily thou train'st thy gims ; 

Fate steers us, — me to deeper night, 
And thee to brighter seas and suns ; 

But thou 'It not dream that I am dying. 

As I sail by with colors flying ! 



I So POEMS. 



ESTHER. 




FACE more vivid than he dreamed who 
drew 

Thy portrait in that thriUing tale of old ! 
Dead queen, we see thee still, thy beauty cold 
As beautiful \ thy dauntless heart which knew 
No fear, — not even of a king who slew 
At pleasure ; maiden heart which was not sold. 
Though all the maiden flesh the king's red gold 
Did buy ! The loyal daughter of the Jew, 
No hour saw thee forget his misery ; 
Thou wert not queen until thy race went free ; 
Yet thoughtful hearts, that ponder slow and deep, 
Find doubtful reverence at last for thee ; 
Thou heldest thy race too dear, thyself too cheap ; 
Honor no second place for truth can keep. 



VASHTI. 

|N all great Shushan's palaces was there 
Not one, O Vashti, knowing thee so well, 
Poor uncrowned queen, that he the world 
could tell 
How thou wert pure and loyal-souled as fair? 
How it was love which made thee bold to dare 
Refuse the shame which madmen would compel? 
Not one, who saw the bitter tears that fell 
And heard thy cry heart-rending on the air : 





BURNT OFFERING. i8l 

" Ah me ! IMy Lord could not this thing have meant ! 

He well might loathe me ever, if I go 

Before these drunken princes as a show. 

I am his queen ; I come of king's descent. 

I will not let him bring our crown so low ; 

He will but bless me when he doth repent ! " 



BURNT OFFERING. 

|HE fire leaped up, swift, hot, and red ; 
Swift, hot, and red, waiting a prey ; 
The woman came with swift, light tread, 
And silently knelt down to lay 
Armfuls of leaves upon the fire, 
As men lay fagots on a pyre. 

Armfuls of leaves which had been bright 
Like painter's tints six months before. 

All faded now, a ghastly sight, 
Dusty and colorless, she bore, 

And knelt and piled them on the fire, 

As men lay fagots on the pyre. 

Watching the crackle and the blaze, 

Idly I smiled and idly said : 
" Good-by, dead leaves, go dead leaves' ways. 

Next year there will be more as red." 
The woman turned, and from the fire 
Looked up as from a funeral-pyre. 



POEMS. 

I saw my idle words had been 

Far crueler than I could know, 
And made an old wound bleed again. 

" These are not leaves," she whispered low, 
" That I am burning in the fire, 
But days, — it is a funeral-pyre." 



BON VOYAGE. 

HERE 'S not an hour but from some spark- 
ling beach 
Go joyful men, in fragile ships to sail, 
By unknown seas to unknown lands. They hail 
The freshening winds with eager hope, and speech 
Of wondrous countries which they soon will reach. 
Left on the shore, we wave our hands, with pale. 
Wet cheeks, but hearts that are ashamed to quail, 
Or own the grief which selfishness would teach. 
O Death, the fairest lands beyond thy sea 
Lie waiting, and thy barks are swift and stanch 
And ready. Why do we reluctant launch? 
And when our friends their heritage have claimed 
Of thee, and entered on it, rich and free, 
Oh, why are we of sorrow not ashamed ? 





NEIV YEAR'S MORNING. 1 83 



NEW YEAR'S MORNING. 

NLY a night from old to new ! 

Only a night, and so much wrought ! 

The Old Year's heart all weary grew, 
But said : " The New Year rest has brought." 
The Old Year's heart its hopes laid down. 
As in a grave ; but, trusting, said : 
" The blossoms of the New Year's crown 
Bloom from the ashes of the dead." 
The Old Year's heart was full of greed ; 
With selfishness it longed and ached, 
And cried : " I have not half I need. 
My thirst is bitter and unslaked. 
But to the New Year's generous hand 
All gifts in plenty shall return ; 
True loving it shall understand ; 
By all my failures it shall learn. 
I have been reckless ; it shall be 
Quiet and calm and pure of life. 
I was a slave ; it shall go free, 
And find sweet peace where I leave strife." 
Only a night from old to new ! 
Never a night such changes brought. 
The Old Year had its work to do ; 
No New Year miracles are wrought. 

Always a night from old to new ! 
Night and the healing balm of sleep ! 
Each morn is New Year's morn come true, 
]\Iorn of a festival to keep. 



1 84 POEMS. 

All nights are sacred nights to make 
Confession and resolve and prayer ; 
All days are sacred days to wake 
New gladness in the sunny air. 
Only a night from old to new ; 
Only a sleep from night to morn. 
The new is but the old come true ; 
Each sunrise sees a new year born. 



JANUARY. 

WINTER ! frozen pulse and heart of fire, 
What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom 
turn 

Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn 
Of death ! Far sooner in midsummer tire 
The streams than under ice. June could not hire 
Her roses to forego the strength they learn 
In sleeping on thy breast. No fires can burn 
The bridges thou dost lay where men desire 
In vain to build. 

O Heart, when Love's sun goes 
To northward, and the sounds of singing cease, 
Keep warm by inner fires, and rest in peace. 
Sleep on content, as sleeps the patient rose. 
Walk boldly on the white untrodden snows, 
The winter is the winter's own release. 





MARCH. 185 



FEBRUARY. 

ilTILL lie the sheltering snows, undimmed 

and white ; 
And reigns the winter's pregnant silence 

still ; 
No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, 
And willow stems grow daily red and bright. 
These are the days when ancients held a rite 
Of expiation for the old year's ill. 
And prayer to purity the new year's will : 
Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight. 
Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste, 
And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed 
The ardent summer's joy to have and taste ; 
Fit days, to give to last year's losses heed. 
To reckon clear the new Hfe's sterner need ; 
Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed ! 



MARCH. 

IJONTH which the warring ancients strangely 
styled 
The month of war, — as if in their fierce 
ways 
Were any month of peace ! — in thy rough days 
I find no war in Nature, though the wild 
Winds clash and cLing, and broken boughs are piled 




lS6 POEMS. 

At feet of writhing trees. The violets raise 
Their heads without affright, without amaze, 
And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child. 
And he who watches well may well discern 
Sweet expectation in each living thing. 
Like pregnant mother the sweet earth doth yearn \ 
In secret joy makes ready for the spring ; 
And hidden, sacred, in her breast doth bear 
Annunciation lilies for the year. 



APRIL. 

|0 days such honored days as these ! While 
yet 
Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide 
For some fair thing which should forever bide 
On earth, her beauteous memory to set 
In fitting frame that no age could forget, 
Her name in lovely April's name did hide, 
And leave it there, eternally allied 
To all the fairest flowers Spring did beget. 
And when fair Aphrodite passed from earth. 
Her shrines forgotten and her feasts of mirth, 
A holier symbol still in seal and sign, 
Sweet April took, of kingdom most divine. 
When Christ ascended, in the time of birth 
Of spring anemones, in Palestine. 





JUNE. 187 



MAY. 

MONTH when they who love must love and 

wed ! 
Wtxt one to go to worlds where May is 

naught, 
And seek to tell the memories he had brought 
From earth of thee, what were most fitly said ? 
I know not if the rosy showers shed 
From apple-boughs, or if the soft green wrought 
In fields, or if the robin's call be fraught 
The most with thy delight. Perhaps they read 
Thee best who in the ancient time did say 
Thou wert the sacred month unto the old : 
No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day 
So subtly sweet as memories which unfold 
In aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie, 
To sun themselves once more before they die. 



JUNE. 

MONTH whose promise and fulfilment 

blend. 
And burst in one ! it seems the earth can 
store 
In all her roomy house no treasure more ; 
Of all her wealth no farthing have to spend 
On fruit, when once this stintless flowering end. 




58 POEMS. 

And yet no tiniest flower shall fall before 

It hath made ready at its hidden core 

Its tithe of seed, which we may count and tend 

Till harvest. Joy of blossomed love, for thee 

Seems it no fairer thing can yet have birth ? 

No room is left for deeper ecstasy? 

Watch well if seeds grow strong, to scatter free 

Germs for thy future summers on the earth. 

A joy which is but joy soon comes to dearth. 



JULY. 

OME flowers are withered and some joys 
have died ; 
The garden reeks with an East Indian 
scent 
From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent ; 
The white heat pales the skies from side to side ; 
But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content, 
Like starry blooms on a new firmament, 
White lilies float and regally abide. 
In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed ; 
The lily does not feel their brazen glare. 
In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share 
Their dews ; the lily feels no thirst, no dread. 
Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head ; 
She drinks of living waters and keeps fair. 











--iit*^'''^'^- 



f'/-a^,-.^ 






.*"■/ V 




SEPTEMBER. 189 



AUGUST. 

|ILENCE again. The glorious symphony 
Hath need of pause and interval of peace. 
Some subtle signal bids all sweet sounds 
cease, 

Save hum of insects' aimless industry. 

Pathetic summer seeks by blazonry 

Of color to conceal her swift decrease. 

Weak subterfuge ! Each mocking day doth fleece 

A blossom, and lay bare her poverty. 

Poor middle-aged summer ! Vain this show ! 

Whole fields of Golden-Rod cannot offset 

One meadow with a single violet ; 

And well the singing thrush and lily know, 

Spite of all artifice which her regret 

Can deck in splendid guise, their time to go ! 



SEPTEMBER. 



GOLDEN month ! How high thy gold is 

heaped ! 
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright 
coins strung 
On wands ; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue 
To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped 
In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped ; 



190 POEMS. 

And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among 
The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung 
Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped 
The purple grape, — last thing to ripen, late 
By very reason of its precious cost. 
O Heart, remember, vintages are lost 
If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait. 
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate, 
Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost ! 



OCTOBER. 




HE month of carnival of all the year, 
When Nature lets the wild earth go its 
way, 

And spend whole seasons on a single day. 
The spring-time holds her white and purple dear; 
October, lavish, flaunts them far and near ; 
The summer charily her reds doth lay 
Like jewels on her costliest array ; 
October, scornful, burns them on a bier. 
The winter hoards his pearls of frost in sign 
Of kingdom : whiter pearls than winter knew, 
Or Empress wore, in Egypt's ancient line, 
October, feasting 'neath her dome of blue. 
Drinks at a single draught, slow filtered through 
Sunshiny air, as in a tingling wine ! 







■■ y. 






f^ 



:i.^A 







'; >r - 




DECEMBER. 191 



NOVEMBER. 

jHIS is the treacherous month when autumn 

days 
With summer's voice come bearing summer's 

gifts. 
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster Hfts 
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze 
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, 
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts. 
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts 
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays 
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt, 
Too late to bid the violet live again. 
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain ; 
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt. 
What joy sufficient hath November felt ? 
What profit from the violet's day of pain ? 



DECEMBER. 




HE lakes of ice gleam bluer than the lakes 
Of water 'neath the summer sunshine 
gleamed : 

Far fairer than when placidly it streamed. 
The brook its frozen architecture makes, 
And under bridges white its swift way takes. 



192 POEMS. 

Snow comes and goes as messenger who dreamed 
Might Hnger on the road ; or one who deemed 
His message hostile gently for their sakes 
Who listened might reveal it by degrees. 
We gird against the cold of winter wind 
Our loins now with mighty bands of sleep, 
In longest, darkest nights take rest and ease, 
And every shortening day, as shadows creep 
O'er the brief noontide, fresh surprises find. 



REFRAIN. 




F all the songs which poets sing, 

The ones which are most sweet, 

Are those which at close intervals 

A low refrain repeat ; 
Some tender word, some syllable. 

Over and over, ever and ever, 
While the song lasts, 

Altering never, 
Music if sung, music if said. 
Subtle like some fine golden thread 

A shuttle casts. 
In and out on a fabric red, 

Till it glows all through 

With the golden hue. 
Oh ! of all the songs sung. 

No songs are so sweet 
As the songs with refrains, 

Which repeat and repeat. 



refrain: 193 

Of all the lives lived, 

No life is so sweet, 
As the life where one thought, 

In refrain doth repeat. 
Over and over, ever and ever, 

Till the life ends. 

Altering never, 
Joy which is felt, but is not said. 
Subtler than any golden thread 

Which the shuttle sends 
In and out in a fabric red, 

Till it glows all through 

With a golden hue. 
Oh ! of all the lives lived, 

Can be no life so sweet 
As the life where one thought 

In refrain doth repeat. 

" Now name me a thought 

To make life so sweet, 
A thought of such joy 

Its refrain to repeat." 
Oh ! foolish to ask me. Ever, ever 
Who loveth believes, 
But telleth never. 
It might be a name, just a name not said 
But in every thought ; like a golden thread 
Which the shuttle weaves 
In and out on a fabric red, 
Till it glows all through 
With a golden hue. 
13 



194 POEMS. 

Oh ! of all sweet lives, 
Who can tell how sweet 

Is the life which one name 
In refrain doth repeat? 



TO AN ABSENT LOVER. 



HAT so much change should come when 
thou dost go, 
Is mystery that I cannot ravel quite. 
The very house seems dark as when the light 
Of lamps goes out. Each wonted thing doth grow 
So altered, that I wander to and fro 
Bewildered by the most familiar sight. 
And feel like one who rouses in the night 
From dream of ecstasy, and cannot know 
At first if he be sleeping or awake. 
My foolish heart so foolish for thy sake 
Hath grown, dear one ! 

Teach me to be more wise. 
I blush for all my foolishness doth lack ; 
I fear to seem a coward in thine eyes. 
Teach me, dear one, — but first thou must come 
back ! 



OUTWARD BOUND. 



195 



CROSSED THREADS. 

HE silken threads by viewless spinners spun, 
Which float so idly on the summer air, 
And help to make each summer morning 
fair, 
Shining like silver in the summer sun, 
Are caught by wayward breezes, one by one. 
And blown to east and west and fastened there, 
Weaving on all the roads their sudden snare. 
No sign which road doth safest, freest run, 
The winged insects know, that soar so gay 
To meet their death upon each summer day. 
How dare we any human deed arraign ; 
Attempt to reckon any moment's cost ; 
Or any pathway trust as safe and plain 
Because we see not where the threads have crossed? 



OUTWARD BOUND. 




HE hour has come, 
raise ; 



Strong hands the anchor 



uj Friends stand and weep along the fading 
shore. 
In sudden fear lest we return no more. 
In sudden fancy that he safer stays 
Who stays behind ; that some new danger lays 



196 POEMS. 

New snare in each fresh path untrod before. 
Ah, fooHsh hearts ! in fate's mysterious lore 
Is written no such choice of plan and days : 
Each hour has its own peril and escape ; 
In most familiar things' familiar shape 
New danger comes without or sight or sound ; 
No sea more foreign rolls than breaks each morn 
Across our thresholds when the day is born : 
We sail, at sunrise, daily, " outward bound." 



SEALED ORDERS. 

HEN ship with " orders sealed " sails out to 

sea, 
Men eager crowd the wharves, and reverent 

gaze 
Upon their faces whose brave spirits raise 
No question if the unknown voyage be 
Of deadly peril. Benedictions free 
And prayers and tears are given, and the days 
Counted till other ships, on homeward ways, 
May bring back message of her destiny. 
Yet, all the time. Life's tossing sea is white 
With scudding sails which no man reefs or stays 
By his own will, for roughest day or night : 
Brave, helpless crews, with captain out of sight. 
Harbor unknown, voyage of long delays, 
They meet no other ships on homeward ways. 




TWO. 197 



■ TWO. 




APART. 

j]NE place — one roof — one name — their 
daily bread 
In daily sacrament they break 
Together, and together take 
Perpetual counsel, such as use has fed 
The habit of, in words which make 
No lie. For courtesy's sweet sake 
And pity's, one brave heart whose joy is dead, 
Smiles ever, answering words which wake 
But weariness; hides all its ache, — 
Its hopeless ache, its longing and its dread ; 
Strong as a martyr at the stake 
Renouncing self; striving to slake 
The pangs of thirst on bitter hyssop red 
With vinegar ! O brave, strong heart 1 
God sets all days, all hours apart, 
Joy cometh at his hour appointed. 



II. 

TOGETHER. 

No touch — no sight — no sound — wide continents 
And seas clasp hands to separate 
Them from each other now. Too late ! 
Triumphant Love has leagued the elements 



198 POEMS. 

To do their will. Hath light a mate 

For swiftness? Can it overweight 

The air? Or doth the sun know accidents? 

The light, the air, the sun, inviolate 

For them, do constant keep and state 

Message of their ineffable contents 

And raptures, each in each. So great 

Their bliss of loving, even fate 

In parting them, hath found no instruments 

Whose bitter pain insatiate 

Doth kill it, or their faith abate 

In presence of Love's hourly sacraments. 



THE GIFT OF GRAPES. 



A LEGEND OF THE FOURTH CENTURY. 



HE desert sun was sinking red ; 
Hot as at noon the light was shed. 



Bareheaded, on the scorching sands, 
Macarius knelt with clasped hands. 

And prayed, as he had prayed for years, 
With smitings and with bitter tears. 

" Good hermit, here ! " — a hand outstretched^ 
It was as if an angel fetched 




THE GIFT OF GRAPES. 199 

The purple clusters, dewy blue, — 

" Good hermit, here ! These grapes for you ! " 

Swift swept the rider by. The grapes 
Lay at the hermit's feet. " Like shapes 

" Of magic, sent to tempt my sense," 
Macarius thought. " Sathanas, hence ! " 

He cried. " I will not touch nor taste. 
Yet, were it not wrong such fruit to waste? " 

He paused. " I '11 leave it at his door. 
My neighbor, who with illness sore 

" Is like to die. He may partake, 
And sin not. Ay, for Jesus' sake, 

" I will his dying lips beseech, 
Command, as if I were his leech." 

Thus speaking, trembling as he spoke. 
Such parched desire within him woke, 

To taste the grapes, he swiftly ran. 
And, kneeling by the dying man. 

Held up the clusters, crying, '• See, 
O brother ! these were given me. 

" I may not eat them ; I am strong ; 
But thou — it were for thee no wrona:. 



POEMS. 

" Thy fever they will cool, allay ; 
Thy failing strength revive and stay." 

Reproachful turned the dying eyes, 
The whispers came like dying sighs : 

" Brother, thou mightst do better deed 
Than tempt the dying in his need. 

" Thy words are but the devil's mesh, 
To snare at last my carnal flesh." 

Silent, Macarius went his way. 
Untouched the purple clusters lay 

Beside the dying hermit's bed. 

They found them there who found him dead, — 

Two brother hermits who each morn, 
Water and bread to him had borne. 

" He drinks of living waters now," 
They pious said, and smoothed his brow, 

And prayed, and laid him in the ground. 
Envying the rest he had found. 

The purple grapes still lying there, 
Filled with sweet scent the desert air. 

"Where could these luscious clusters grow? " 
" He tasted not," they whispered low; 



THE GIFT OF GRAPES. 20 1 

" But fairer fruit glads now his eyes : 
He feasts to-day in paradise." 

On each a longing silence fell. 

" Brother, they tempt our souls to hell ! " 

Cried one. The other : " Ay, how weak 
Our flesh ! Strange that so long we seek 

" In vain to dull its carnal sense. 
Brother, we '11 bear these clusters hence. 

" That aged hermit, in the cave. 
Perchance these grapes his life might save. 

" Thou knowest, but yesterday 't was said 
He starves ; eats neither pulse nor bread." 

Slow braiding baskets, in his door 
The aged hermit sat, his store 

Of rushes and his water-jar 

In reach. He heard their steps afar, 

And, as they nearer drew, up-raised 
His well-nigh sightless eyes, and gazed 

Bewilderedly. " Eat, father, eat ! " 
The brothers cried, and at his feet, 

Rev'rent, the purple clusters laid. 
Trembling, but stern, the right hand made 



202 POEMS. 

Swift gesture of reproof. " Away ! " 
In feeble voice he cried, " and pray 

" To be forgiven ! Heinous sin 
Is his who lets temptation in." 

Meek-bowed, the brothers turned to go. 
" Stay ! " said the hermit, whispering low : 

" Leave them not here to tempt my sight. 
I may not eat. Some other might. 

" As each man thinketh in his heart, 
So must he reckon duty's part. 

" Mayhap some brother, in sore strait 
Even this hour doth sit and wait, 

" To whom God sends these clusters sweet 
By your pure hands. Be true ! Be fleet ! " 

From cave to cave, from cell to cell, 
The brothers did their errand well. 

In Nitria's desert, hermits then 
By scores were dwelling, holy men. 

Mistaken saints, who thought to save 
Their souls, by making life a grave. 

From cave to cave, from cell to cell. 
The brothers did their errand well. 



THE GIFT OF GRAPES. 203 

At every hermit's feet they laid 

The tempting grapes, in vain, nor stayed 

Till, at the desert's utmost bound, 
Macarius's cell they joyful found, — 

Macarius, oldest, holiest saint 
Of all the desert. Weary, faint, 

They knelt before him. " Father, see 
These grapes J they must be meant for thee ! 

" These many days we bear them now ; 
And yet they do not withered grow. 

" No brother will so much as taste. 
'T was Isidore who bade us haste 

" To find the man to whom God sent 
The luscious gift. They must be meant 

"For thee. Thou art the last." "Ay," said 
The good Macarius, flushing red 

With holy joy, — " Ay ; meant for me. 
As token of the constancy 

" Of all our brothers ! Blessed day 
Is this, my brothers ! Go your way ! 

" Christ fill your souls with lasting peace ! 
The time is near of my release." 



204 POEMS. 

Then, kneeling on the scorching sands, 

He stretched toward heaven his clasped hands, 

And prayed, as he had prayed for years, 
With smitings and with bitter tears. 

Untouched, the grapes lay glowing there, 
Filling with scent the desert air. 



AVALANCHES. 

HEART that on Love's sunny height doth 

dwell, 
And joy unquestioning by day, by night. 
Serene in trust because the skies are bright ! 
Listen to what all Alpine records tell 
Of days on which the avalanches fell. 
Not days of storm when men were pale with fright 
And watched the hills with anxious, straining sight, 
And heard in every sound a note of knell ; 
But when in heavens still, and blue, and clear, 
The sun rode high, — those were the hours to fear 
And so the monks of San Bernard to-day, — 
May the Lord count their souls and hold them dear, 
When skies are cloudless, in their convent stay. 
And for the souls of dead and dying pray. 





CHANCE. 205 



A WOMAN'S DEATH-WOUND. 

|T left upon her tender flesh no trace. 
The murderer is safe. As swift as light 
The weapon fell, and, in the summer night, 
Did scarce the silent, dewy air displace ; 
'T was but a word. A blow had been less base. 
Like dumb beast branded by an iron white 
With heat, she turned in blind and helpless flight, 
But then remembered, and with piteous face 
Came back. 

Since then, the world has nothing missed 
In her, in voice or smile. But she — each day 
She counts until her dying be complete. 
One moan she makes, and ever doth repeat : 
" O lips that I have loved and kissed and kissed, 
Did I deserve to die this bitterest way? " 



CHANCE. 

HESE things I wondering saw beneath the 
sun : 
That never yet the race was to the swift. 
The fight unto the mightiest to lift. 
Nor favors unto men whose skill had done 
Great works, nor riches ever unto one 
Wise man of understanding. All is drift 
Of time and chance, and none may stay or sift 




206 POEMS. 

Or know the end of that which is begun. 

Who waits until the wind shall silent keep, 

Will never find the ready hour to sow. 

Who watcheth clouds will have no time to reap. 

At daydawn plant thy seed, and be not slow 

At night. God doth not slumber take nor sleep 

Which seed shall prosper thou canst never know. 



SEPTEMBER. 




HE golden-rod is yellow ; 

The corn is turning brown ; 
|! The trees in apple orchards 
With fruit are bending down. 



The gentian's bluest fringes 
Are curling in the sun ; 

In dusty pods the milkweed 
Its hidden silk has spun. 

The sedges flaunt their harvest, 
In every meadow nook ; 

And asters by the brook-side 
Make asters in the brook, 

From dewy lanes at morning 
The grapes' sweet odors rise ; 

At noon the roads all flutter 
With yellow butterflies. 



APPEAL. 207 

Ey all these lovely tokens 

September days are here, 
With summer's best of weather, 

And autumn's best of cheer. 

But none of all this beauty 

Which floods the earth and air 

Is unto me the secret 

Which makes September fair. 

'T is a thing which I remember ; 

To name it thrills me yet : 
One day of one September 

I never can forget. 



APPEAL. 




LOVE, whom I so love, in this sore strait 
Of thine, fall not ! Below thy very feet 
I kneel, so much I reverence thee, so sweet 
It is to every pulse of mine to wait 
Thy lightest pleasure, and to bind my fate 
To thine by humblest service. Incomplete 
All heaven. Love, if there thou dost not greet 
Me, with perpetual need which I can sate, 
I and no other ! So I dare to pray 
To thee this prayer. It is not wholly prayer. 
The solemn worships of the ages lay 
Even on God a solemn bond. I dare, — 
Thy worshipper, thy lowly, loving mate, — 
I dare to say, O Love, thou must be great ! " 



208 POEMS. 



WRECK. 




[By the laws of the Rhodians divers were allowed a share of the 
wreck in proportion to the depth to which they had gone in search 
of it.] 

iJU many fathoms deep my sweet ship lies, 
No ripple marks the place. The gulls' 
white wings 
Pause not ; the boatman idly sleeps or sings, 
Floating above ; and smile to smile, with skies 
That bend and shine, the sunny water vies. 
Too heavy freight, and of too costly things, 
My sweet ship bore. No tempest's mutterings 
Warned me ; but in clear noon, before my eyes 
She sudden faltered, rocked, and with each sail 
Full set, went down ! 

O Heart ! in diver's mail 
Wrap thee. Breathe not till, standing on her deck, 
Thou has confronted all thy loss and wreck. 
Poor coward Heart ! — thou darest not plunge ? — 

For thee 
There lies no other pearl in any sea. 



THE HEART OF A ROSE. 

ROSE like a hollow cup with a brim, — 
A brim as pink as the after-glow ; 
Deep down in its heart gold stamens swim, 
Tremble and swim in a sea of snow. 




ACQUAINTED WITH GRIEF. 209 

My Love set it safe in a crystal glass, 
Gently as petals float down at noon. 
Low, in a whisper, my Love's voice said : 
" Look quick ! In an hour it will be dead. 
I picked it because it will die so soon. 
Now Usten, dear Heart, as the seconds pass, 
What the rose will say," my Love's voice said. 

I look and I listen. The flushed pink brim 
Is still as June's warmest after-glow ; 
Silent as stars the gold stamens swim, 
Tremble and swim in their sea of snow. 
I dare not breathe on the crystal glass. 
Lest one sweet petal should fall too soon. 
False was the whisper my Love's voice said, — 
If he had not picked it, it had been dead ; 
But now it will live an eternal noon. 
And I shall hear as the seconds pass 
What the rose will say till I am dead. 



ACQUAINTED WITH GRIEF. 

OST know Grief well ? Hast known her long ? 
So long, that not with gift or smile. 
Or gliding footstep in the throng. 
She can deceive thee by her guile ? 

So long, that with unflinching eyes 

Thou smilest to thyself apart, 
To watch each flimsy, fresh disguise 

She plans to stab anew thy heart ? 




POEMS. 

So long, thou barrest up no door 
To stay the coming of her feet? 

So long, thou answerest no more, 
Lest in her ear thy cry be sweet? 

Dost know the voice in which she says, 
" No more henceforth our paths divide ; 

In loneliest nights, in crowded days, 
I am forever by thy side " ? 

Then dost thou know, perchance, the spell 
The gods laid on her at her birth, — 

The viewless gods who mingle well 
Strange love and hate of us on earth. 

Weapon and time, the hour, the place, 
All these are hers to take, to choose. 

To give us neither rest nor grace. 
Not one heart-throb to miss or lose. 



All these are hers ; yet stands she, slave. 
Helpless before our one behest : 

The gods, that we be shamed not, gave. 
And locked the secret in our breast. 



She to the gazing world must bear 
Our crowns of triumph, if we bid ; 

Loyal and mute, our colors wear, 
Sign of her own forever hid. 



FEALTY. 

Smile to our smile, song to our song, 
With songs and smiles our roses fling, 

Till men turn round in every throng, 
To note such joyous pleasuring. 

And ask, next morn, with eyes that lend 
A fervor to the words they say, 

" What is her name, that radiant friend 
Who walked beside you yesterday? " 



FEALTY. 

HE thing I count and hold as fealty — 
The only fealty to give or take — 
Doth never reckoning keep, and coldly make 
Bond to itself with this or that to be 
Content as wage ; the wage unpaid, to free 
Its hand from service, and its love forsake, 
Its faith cast off, as one from dreams might wake 
At morn, and smiling watch the vision flee. 
Such fealty is treason in disguise. 
Who trusts it, his death-warrant sealed doth bear. 
Love looks at it with angry, wondering eyes ; 
Love knows the face true fealty doth wear, 
The pulse that beats unchanged by alien air. 
Or hurts, or crimes, until the loved one dies. 




POEMS. 



VISION. 




i|Y subtile secrets of discovered law 

Men well have measured the horizon's 
round, 

Kept record of the speed of Hght and sound, 
Have close defined by reasoning without flaw 
The utmost human vision ever saw 
Unaided, and have arrant sought and found 
Devices countless to extend its bound. 
Bootless their secrets all ! My eyes but stray 
To eastward, and majestic, bright, arise 
Peaks of a range which three days distant lies ! 
And of the faces, too, that light my day 
Most clear, one is a continent away, 
The other shines above the farthest skies ! 



THE POET'S FORGE. 




E lies on his back, the idling smith, 
A lazy, dreaming fellow is he ; 
The sky is blue, or the sky is gray, 
He lies on his back the livelong day. 
Not a tool in sight ; say what they may, 
A curious sort of a smith is he. 

The powers of the air are in league with him ; 
The country around believes it well ; 



THE POET'S FORGE. 213 

The wondering folk draw spying near ; 
Never sight nor sound do they see or hear ; 
No wonder they feel a little fear ; 
When is it his work is done so well ? 

Never sight nor sound to see or hear ; 

The powers of the air are in league with him ; 
High over his head his metals swing, 
Fine gold and silver to shame the king ; 
We might distinguish their glittering, 

If once we could get in league with him. 

High over his head his metals swing ; 

He hammers them idly year by year, 
Hammers and chuckles a low refrain : 
" A bench and book are a ball and chain, 
The adze is better tool than the plane ; 

What 's the odds between now and next year ? " 

Hammers and chuckles his low refrain, 

A lazy, dreaming fellow is he : 
When sudden, some day, his bells peal out, 
And men, at the sound, for gladness shout ; 
He laughs and asks what it 's all about ; 

Oh, a curious sort of smith is he 1 



214 POEMS. 



VANITY OF VANITIES. 



EE to the blossom, moth to the flame ; 
Each to his passion ; what 's in a name ? 



Red clover 's sweetest, well the bee knows ; 
No bee can suck it ; lonely it blows. 

Deep lies its honey, out of reach, deep ; 
What use in honey hidden to keep ? 

Robbed in the autumn, starving for bread ; 
Who stops to pity a honey- bee dead? 

Star-flames are brightest, blazing the skies ; 
Only a hand's-breadth the moth-wing flies. 

Fooled with a candle, scorched with a breath ; 
Poor little miller, a tawdry death ! 

Life is a honey, life is a flame ; 

Each to his passion ; what 's in a name? 

Swinging and circling, face to the sun, 
Brief little planet, how it doth run ! 

Bee-time and moth-time, add the amount ; 
White heat and honey, who keeps the count? 



morn: 215 

Gone some fine evening, a spark out-tost ! 
The world no darker for one star lost ! 



Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame ; 
Each to his passion ; what 's in a name ? 



MORN. 



N what a strange bewilderment do we 
Awake each morn from out the brief night's 
sleep. 

Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep 
Its slow way back, as if it could not free 
Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory, 
Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep 
The joy or grief which it had last to keep 
For us ; and by the joy or grief we see 
The new day dawneth like the yesterday ; 
We are unchanged ; our life the same we knew 
Before. I wonder if this is the way 
We wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through 
A brief bewilderment, and in dismay 
Behold our life unto our old life true. 




2l6 POEMS. 

QUATRAINS. 

THE MONEY-SEEKER. 

HAT has he in this glorious world's domain? 
Unreckoned loss which he counts up for gain, 
Unreckoned shame, of which he feels no 
stain, 
Unreckoned dead he does not know were slain. 

What things does he take with him when he dies? 
Nothing of all that he on earth did prize : 
Unto his grovelling feet and sordid eyes 
How difficult and empty seem the skies ! 

THE LOVER. 

He knows the utmost secret of the earth : 
The golden sunrise's and sunset's worth ; 
The pregnancy of every blossom's birth ; 
The hidden name of every creature's mirth. 

He knows all measures of the pulse's beat ; 
He knows all pathless paths of human feet ; 
He knows what angels know not of the sweet 
Fulfilments when love's being is complete. 

He knows all deadly soils where poisons bloom ; 
He knows the fated road where joy makes room 
For nameless terrors and eternal gloom : 
God help him in his sad omniscient doom ! 



WHERE? SI- 



RELEASE. 




F one had watched a prisoner many a year, 
Standmg behind a barred window-pane, 
Fettered with heavy handcuff and with chain, 

And gazing on the blue sky, far and clear ; 

And suddenly some morning he should hear 

The man had in the night contrived to gain 

His freedom and was safe, would this bring pain? 

Ah ! would it not to dullest heart appear 

Good tidings? 

Yesterday I looked on one 

Who lay as if asleep in perfect peace. 

His long imprisonment for life was done. 

Eternity's great freedom his release 

Had brought. Yet they who loved him called him 
dead. 

And wept, refusing to be comforted. 



WHERE? 

jjY snowy eupatorium has dropped 

Its silver threads of petals in the night ; 
No signal told its blossoming had stopped ; 
Its seed-films flutter silent, ghostly white : 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?" 




2i8 POEMS. 

Beneath the glossy leaves of winter green 
Dead lily-bells lie low, and in their place 
A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen, 
Which tells not of the lily's fragrant grace : 

No answer stirs the shining air, 

As I ask, "Where?" 

This morning's sunrise does not show to me 
Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday ; 
Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see 
Its moments floated silently away : 

No answer stirs the shining air. 

As I ask, "Where?" 



EMIGRAVIT. 

ITH sails full set, the ship her anchor weighs. 
Strange names shine out beneath her figure 
head. 

What glad farewells with eager eyes are said ! 
What cheer for him who goes, and him who stays ! 
Fair skies, rich lands, new homes, and untried days 
Some go to seek ; the rest but wait instead 
Until the next stanch ship her flag doth raise. 
Who knows what myriad colonies there are 
Of fairest fields, and rich, undreamed-of gains 
Thick planted in the distant shining plains 
Which we call sky because they lie so far? 
Oh, write of me, not " Died in bitter pains," 
But " Emigrated to another star ! " 





MY TENANTS. 219 



MY TENANTS. 

NEVER had a title-deed 
To my estate. But little heed 
Eyes give to me, when I walk by 
My fields, to see who occupy. 
Some clumsy men who lease and hire 
And cut my trees to feed their fire, 
Own all the land that I possess, 
And tax my tenants to distress. 
And if I said I had been first. 
And, reaping, left for them the worst, 
That they were beggars at the hands 
Of dwellers on my royal lands. 
With idle laugh of passing scorn 
As unto words of madness born. 
They would reply. 

I do not care ; 
They cannot crowd the charmed air ; 
They cannot touch the bonds I hold 
On all that they have bought and sold. 
They can waylay my faithful bees. 
Who, lulled to sleep, with fatal ease, 
Are robbed. Is one day's honey sweet 
Thus snatched ? All summer round my feet 
In golden drifts from plumy wings, 
In shining drops on fragrant things, 
Free gift, it came to me. My corn. 
With burnished banners, morn by morn, 



220 POEMS. 

Comes out to meet and honor me ; 

The gUttering ranks spread royally 

Far as I walk. When hasty greed 

Tramples it down for food and seed, 

I, with a certain veiled delight, 

Hear half the crop is lost by blight. 

Letter of law these may fulfil. 

Plant where they like, slay what they will, 

Count up their gains and make them great ; 

Nevertheless, the whole estate 

x\lways belongs to me and mine. 

We are the only royal Hne. 

And though I have no title-deed 

My tenants pay me loyal heed 

When our sweet fields I wander by 

To see what strangers occupy. 



THE STORY OF BOON.^ 

T haunts my. thoughts mom, night, and noon, 
The story of the woman, Boon, — 
Haunts me like restless ghost, until 
I give myself to do its will ; 
Cries voiceless, yet as voices cry, — 
" O singer, can this tale pass by 
Untold by thee? Thy heart is wnmg 
In vain, if dies the song unsung." 

■ This story of Boon is strictly true. It is told by Mrs. Leonowens, 
the English Governess at the Siamese court. She took it down from 
Choy's own lips. 




THE STORY OF BOON. 2; 

I am unworthy : master hands 

Should strike the chords, and fill the lands 

From sea to sea with melody 

All reverent, yet with harmony 

Majestic, jubilant, to tell 

How love must love, if love loves well ; 

How once incarnate love was found 

On earth, dishonored, martyr-crowned. 

Crowned by a heathen woman's name, — 

O blessed Boon, of peerless fame ! 

In Siam's court the Buddhist King 

Held festival. Fair girls to sing, 

And dance, and play, were led between 

Close ranks of Amazons in green 

And gold. In chariot milk-white 

Of ivory, and glittering bright 

With flowers garlanded, rode Choy, 

The young, the beautiful ; with joy 

And subtle pride no words could tell, 

Her virgin bosom rose and fell. 

No dream the Siam maiden knew 

More high or blest than that which grew 

In Choy's poor blinded heart, — to be 

The favorite of the King, and see 

The other wives beneath her feet. 

From babyhood, that this was sweet 

The child was taught. How should she know 

They told her false, and worked her woe ! 

The song, the dance, the play, were done, 
Choy's fatal triumph had been won. 
The old king's bleared and lustful eyes 



POEMS. 

Had marked her for his next new prize. 
Asking her name, as low she bowed 
Before the throne, he called aloud, — 
" Which of my nobles springs to lead 
Her chariot ponies ? Do I need 
Speak farther? " 

On the instant, two 
Young nobles robed in white sprang through 
The crowd, and kneeling as to queen, 
With low-bent head and reverent mien, 
They walked the chariot beside. 
The bands burst forth in swelling tide 
Of music, and the curtain fell. 
One noble, smitten by the spell 
Of Choy's great beauty, whispered, " God, 
How beautiful thou art ! " 

" My Lord, 
Have care," the scornful Choy exclaimed : 
" 'T were ill for thee, if thou wert blamed 
By me." 

The other noble silent gazed. 
With eyes whose glance strange tumult raised 
Within Choy's breast. He did not speak : 
All spoken words had fallen weak, 
After his look. Yet Choy's heart burned 
To hear his voice. Sudden she turned. 
And leaning forward said, " How now, 
What seest thou in air that thou 
Art dumb?" 

With trembling lips he spoke, — 
" O Lady, till thy sweet voice broke 
Upon the air, I thought I saw 



THE STORY OF BOON. 22, 

An angel ; now, with no less awe, 
But greater joy, I see thou art 
A woman." 

Ah, they know not heart 
Of man or woman, who declare 
That love needs time to love and dare. 
His altars wait, — not day nor name, 
Only the touch of sacred flame. 

The song, the dance, the play were done. 

Oh, fatal triumph Choy had won ! 

Oh, hateful life she thought was sweet ! 

She knelt before the old king's feet, 

A slave, a toy, a purchased thing, 

Which to his worn-out sense might bring 

Pleasure again of touch, of sight. 

Doting, he named her " Chorm," " Delight," 

Decked her with jewels, gave her power. 

And day and night, and hour by hour, 

With hideous caresses sought 

Joy in the thing which he had bought. 

And hour by hour, and night and day. 

Wasted poor Choy's young life away. 

One thrilling voice, one glowing face, 

One thought of such a love's embrace. 

Haunted her thoughts, and racked her breast, 

Robbed her of peace, robbed her of rest. 

Made of her life such living lie. 

Such torture, she but prayed to die. 

Months passed, and she knew not the name 
Of him she loved. At last there came 



2 34 POEMS. 

The fated day. A woman slave, 
New in the palace, quickly gave, 
Answering Choy's artful questioning. 
The noble's name. 

" Ah, go and bring 
Me news of him," said Choy. " He bore 
Himself so loftily, I more 
Recall him than all else that day. 
Seek out minutely in what way 
He lives ; what may his harem hold. 
He seemed to me so silent, cold, 
No doubt some Houri keeps him chained," 
With scornful laugh, but poorly feigned. 
Cried Choy. 

At dusk of night returned 
The slave, with wondrous tale, which burned 
Itself on Choy's glad heart. 

The Duke, 
Phaya Phi Chitt his name, forsook 
His harem on the day he led 
The Favorite's chariot ponies. Dead 
He seemed to all he once had loved : 
No fear, no joy, his spirit moved. 
His friends believed that he was mad, 
Or else some mortal illness had. 
A feverish joy filled all Choy's thought, 
She knew by what this change was wrought. 
Love's keenest pain, if shared like this. 
No longer seemed a pain, but bliss. 
Again the faithful slave she sent. 
With message of one word, which meant 
But " I remember." 



THE STORY OF BOON. 

"■ I love much," 
The Duke sent back. Ah, madness such 
As this was never seen. The halls 
Of tyrants' palaces have walls 
Higher than Love's and Hope's last breath, 
Wider than Life, deeper than Death ! 

Embroidered with a thread of gold 
On silk, and hidden fold on fold, 
As if an amulet she wore, 
Her lover's name the poor Choy bore 
By night, by day, upon her heart. 
The new slave woman, with an art 
As tender as a sister's, sought 
To comfort her. Each day she brought 
New message from the Duke, each night 
Lay at her mistress' feet till light. 
O Buddha ! pitiful, divine, 
All-seeing, gav'st thou no sign 
To warn these faithful, loving three, 
Who were as faithful unto thee 
As to each other ! Didst thou teach 
The cruel tyrant how to reach 
Their life blood, that thy arm might save 
Them by the surety of the grave ? 
Might give to their expiring breath 
The gift of life, in shape of death? 
Ah, Buddha ! pitiful, divine. 
Thy gifts of death record no sign 
Of life beyond. Our weak hearts crave 
Some voice of surety for the grave. 
15 



226 POEMS. 

The hours grew ripe : the hour was set, 

The night had come. Choy skimbered yet, 

While fnithful Boon, with footsteps hght, 

Made all things ready for their flight. 

Sudden a clash of arms, — a gleam 

Of fire of torches ! From her dream 

Choy waked, and on her threshold saw. 

Dread sight which chilled her blood with awe, 

Standing with panting voice and breath, 

Mai Taie, Mother of Death, 

Cruelest of all the Amazons, 

Slayer of all convicted ones 

Who braved the tyrant's wrath and hate. 

Choy called on Boon. Too late ! too late ! 

Boon fettered lay with gag and chain ; 

Most piteous eyes, faithful in pain, 

Unto her mistress lifting still. 

With blows and jeers wreaking their will. 

The soldier women, fierce and strong, 

Dragged weeping Choy and Boon along 

The by-ways of the silent town, 

And flung them, chained and helpless, down 

Into a dark and loathsome cell. 

Soon as their footsteps' echoes fell 

Faintly afar, Choy whispered low, — 

" O Boon, dear Boon ! tell me hast thou 

Confessed? " 

" Dear Lady, no ! " she cried. 
" No tortures tyrants ever tried 
Shall wring from me one word of blame 
Against Phaya Phi Chitt's dear name." 
That instant, flashing through Choy's heart 



THE STORY OF BOON. 227 

Strange instinct swept. 

" Tell me who art 
Thou, Boon," she said: "why dost thou cling 
To me through all this suffering? 
All other women I have known 
Had left me now to die alone. 
O Boon, conceal from me no more ! 
Tell me the truth in this dread hour ! " 
Then, looking newly at her face, 
She saw it beauty had, and grace ; 
Saw that the feet were lithe and fine. 
The hands were small and smooth : each sign 
Of tender nurture and high blood 
This loving woman bore, who stood 
To her as slave. Unearthly sweet 
Grew Boon's pale face, as to the feet 
Of Choy, all crippled, chained, she crept, 
And, as she strove to speak, but wept 
And sobbed, — 

" O Lady dear, forgive 
That I deceived thee ! I but live 
For thy dear Duke. I am his wife ! " 
Dumb wonder sealed Choy's lips. A strife 
Of fierce mistrust warred in her breast. 
At last, stern-faced, " Tell me the rest," 
She said. 

Closer, more humbly still 
Boon crept, and said, — 

" Lady, I will ; 
And, by the heart of Buddha, thou 
Canst but forgive when thou dost know 
The whole. 



2 28 POEMS. 

" The day my husband came 
Home from the fete, he spoke thy name 
And told thy beauty unto me, 
And said that from that moment he, 
His thought, his heart, his blood, were thine. 
Thine utterly, and no more mine 
Again. What could I do but weep? 
I saw him pine. No food, no sleep, 
He took. I thought that he must die. 
What could I do? O Lady, I 
So loved him that I longed as he 
That fate might give him joy and thee. 
I vowed to him that I would win 
Thee for his wife. How to begin 
I knew not, when I found thou wert 
The King's last favorite. It hurt 
My pride to be a slave. The gold 
Lies in the sea for which I sold 
Myself to thee, rather than break 
My vow. But easy for his sake, 
I loved him so, thy service came, 
Soon as I found that his dear name 
Was dear to thee as thine to him ; 
That, when I spoke it, it could dim 
Thine eyes with passion's tears, like those 
Which he had shed in passion's throes. 
For want of thee. O Lady, none 
Of all thy sighs and tears, not one. 
But I have flown and faithful told, 
That he might know thou wert not cold. 
Each word of beauty, nobleness. 
Which thou didst speak, I bore to bless 



THE STORY OF BOON. 229 

His heart with knowledge more complete 

Of thee. O Lady, the deceit 

Was only for his precious sake 

And thine : no other way to take 

I knew. My husband is so great, 

So good, I was but humble mate 

For him. As shadow follows shape, 

My heart in life cannot escape 

From following his ; nor yet in death 

Shall it be changed : with dying breath, 

From Buddha I one joy will wrest, 

That he find rapture in thy breast." 

Boon ceased, and in her slender hands, 

Which scarce could lift her fetter bands. 

Buried her face. Choy did not speak. 

Her reverence knew not where to seek 

For fitting words which she might dare 

To use to Boon. The midnight air 

Heard only sobs, as close between 

Her arms she drew Boon's head to lean 

Upon her breast. The long night waned, 

And still in silence sat the chained 

And helpless women. Strange thoughts filled 

The heart of Choy. Her love seemed chilled. 

Poor, and untrue, beside this one 

Great deed she never could have done. 

" Ah, me ! his wife has loved him best," 

In bitterness her heart confessed. 

Yet jealousy for shame was dead. 

Her tears fell loving on Boon's head : 

" Dear Boon," she whispered soft and low, 

"To Buddha pitiful we go." 



230 FOE MS. 

Next morning when the judges dread 

Cross-questioned Boon, she simply said, 

" My Lords, what can a poor slave know? ' 

Weary at last, the fearful blow 

Of lashes on her naked feet 

They ordered. Blood ran down the sweet 

Soft flesh : still came the answer low, 

'' My Lords, what can a poor slave know? 

Be pitiful ! " The swift blows fell 

Again : no cry, no sound, to tell 

That it was pain. Boon gave ; no sign 

Of faltering. They poured down wine 

To stay her strength, and then again, — 

Oh, surely fiends they were, not men ! — 

Again, from slender neck to waist, 

The cutting blows in angry haste 

With tenfold violence they laid. 

Each blow a line of red blood made ; 

Yet, when they paused, the answer came 

Steadfast, heroic, in the same 

Pathetic words, more feeble, slow, 

" My Lords, what can a poor slave know? " 

Then in the torture of the screw. 

Whose pain has led strong men to do 

Dishonor to their souls and God, 

They bound this woman's hands. Sweat stood 

In bloody drops along her brow. 

Yet from her lips not even now 

Was heard one syllable. 

In rage, 
The baffled tyrants to assuage 
Her sufferings tried every art 



THE STORY OF BOON. 23 1 

Which could be tried by kindest heart. 
And snatched her back from death again, 
Again to tortures fresh ; in vain ! 
Night came, and from her lips no word 
Had fallen. All night they faintly stirred, 
As if in sleep she dreamed and spoke. 
Choy watching, weeping by her, took 
Her hand, and said, — 

" Oh, tell thy Choy, 

Art thou in mortal pain? " 

" My joy 
Is greater than my pain," she said, 
" That this poor flesh hath not betrayed 
My love. Thanking great Buddha now, 
I pray unceasing, till we go 
Again to torture." Then no more 
Boon spoke. To Choy, but little lower 
Than angel she appeared. Ah ! true 
It was the wife loved best ! Love knew 
His own. His angels comforted 
Her soul with joy through hours which bred 
But anguish in Choy's breast. 

Too soon 
Came cruel day, and brought to Boon 
Again the lash, the screw; again 
Unto the door of death in vain 
They tortured her : no word escaped 
Her bloodless lips. Her face seemed shaped 
Of iron, so calm, so resolute ; 
A superhuman light her mute 
And upward gaze transfigured, till 
In awe the torturers stood still. 



232 POEMS. 

Then, binding up her wounds, they laid 
Her on a couch to rest. New shade 
Of anguish now her face revealed, 
Waiting Choy's words. All unconcealed, 
No doubt, the weaker love lay bare 
Before her instinct. It could dare 
For self : now that for self remained 
No hope, no future to be gained. 
Could it for him be true, be great? 
Ah, this true torture was, — to wait 
Another woman's courage ! Eyes 
Of fire Boon fixed on Choy. To rise 
She helpless strove, in impulse vain, 
As if by touch she could sustain 
Choy's strength. Her gaze was like a cry. 
" Oh, what is death, is suffering, by 
The side of truth ? If thou dost love 
Another, thought of self can move 
Thee not. If thou dost love, to bear 
The worst is nothing. Dost thou dare 
Betray, thou art a coward, liar ! " 
Entreated, warned Boon's eyes of fire. 
They held Choy's eyes as by a spell. 
Feeble the judges' stern tones fell. 
Idle the threats of torture seemed, 
Beside the scorching look which gleamed 
Upon that woman's face. 

Thus stayed 
And stung, Choy bore the blows which laid 
Her quivering flesh in furrows. Feet 
And neck and shoulders, all the sweet 
Fair skin was torn : her blood ran down 



THE STORY OF BOON. 233 

As Boon's had run, — not of her own 
Resolve, but born of Boon's the strength 
Which silent sealed her lips. At length 
The one sure pain which torturers know 
They tried. No rack, no fire, no blow. 
Is dreadful as the screw. At first 
Sharp turn it gave, a loud cry burst 
From Choy, — 

" O Boon, forgive, forgive ! 
I cannot bear this pain, and live ! " 
And, shrieking out her lover's name, 
She cowered before Boon's eyes of flame. 
One cry of uttermost despair 
From Boon rang out upon the air, 
Her fettered arms above her head 
She lifted, and fell back as dead. 
Ah ! true it was, the wife loved best ! 
How true, that cry of Choy's confessed. 
To love which she had so betrayed, 
No prayer she for forgiveness made : 
On him whom she had thought her life 
She called not, but upon his wife. 

Swift sped the feet of them who sought 
The lover. Ere the noon, they brought 
Him also. Boon, with anguished eyes, 
Beheld him there. She could not rise, 
But, creeping on her hands and feet, 
She cried, in tones unearthly sweet, — 
" O Lords ! O Judges ! look at me, 
And listen. It was I, not he. 



2 34 POEMS. 

I am his wife. I laid the plot. 
Except for me, the thought had not 
Been his. 'T was only I deceived 
The Lady Choy. He but believed 
What I desired. The guilt is mine, 
All mine. Tell them it was not thine, 
My husband, — I can bear the whole." 
And, as she turned to him, the soul 
Of love inefifable set smile 
Upon her face. Her piteous guile. 
Transparent, thrilled each heart and ear 
That heard her pleading voice. A tear 
Fell from the sternest Amazon, 
Fierce Khoon Thow App, as in a tone 
No mortal from her lips had heard 
Before, she said, " O Boon, what stirred 
Thy heart to this? Thy motive tell ! " 
The question all unanswered fell. 
Boon lay again as if in death. 
With closed eyes and gasping breath. 

All night, low on the dark cell's floor, 
Lay Boon and Choy ; for Boon no more 
Remained in life. When Choy crept near, 
And humbly spoke, she answered, " Dear, 
Farewell ! " — no other word. Choy strove, 
Poor Choy ! her feebler, lesser love 
Avenging on herself its sin, — 
Strove from the greater love to win 
Some healing stay. Too sweet to pain, 
Too loyal and too true to feign, 
Boon made but one reply, which fell 
Fainter and fainter, " Dear, farewell ! " 



THE STORY OF BOON. 235 

That night, at midnight, sat the King 
And Lords in council. For the thing 
Phaya Phi Chitt and Choy had planned, 
Scarcely in all that cruel land 
Was known a punishment which seemed 
Sufificient. Fierce his red wrath gleamed, 
As cried the King, — 

" At dawn shall fly 
The vultures with their hungry cry. 
Rare feast for them ready by noon 
Shall be : three traitors' bodies hewn 
In pieces, and with offal cast 
Abroad, that to the very last 
Low grade of life they may return, 
And grovel with the beasts to learn, 
Through countless ages, in what way 
Kings punish when their slaves betray. 
Long generations shall forget 
Their base-bom names, ere souls are set 
Again within their foul, false flesh. 
To murder love and trust afresh ! " ^ 

Ah ! true it was, the wife loved best ! 
Love knew his own, gave her his rest ; 
And, to the other woman, doom 
Of life-long woe and life-long gloom. 
O cruel friends who prayed the King, 
Who dreamed Choy to this world could cling ! 
Reprieved from death, to life condemned, 
Sad prisoner forever hemmed 

1 The Siamese believe that, whenever a dead body is not burned, 
its soul is condemned to begin life again in the lowest animal form. 



236 POEMS. 

Within the hated palace-wall ; 

By all despised, and shunned by all, 

Lonely and broken-hearted, she 

Weeps day and night in misery. 

And day and night one picture haunts 

Her weary brain, her sorrow taunts, — 

Picture of Buddha's fairest fields, 

Where every hour new transport yields. 

And where the lover whom she slew. 

Loyal at last, and glad and true, 

In full Elysium's perfect rest, 

Walks with fhe one who loved him best ! 

It haunts me morn, and night, and noon : 

This story of the woman. Boon, — 

Haunts me like restless ghost, that says, — 

" Oh, where is love in these sad days ! 

Rise up, and in ray might and name 

Plead for the altar and the flame." 

I am unworthy : master hands 

Should strike the chords, and fill the lands 

From sea to sea with melody 

Of such transcendent harmony 

That it all jubilant might tell 

How love must love, if love loves well. 

Yet, telling all, and flooding lands 

With melody, the master hands 

Could strike no deeper chord than I, 

When from a woman's heart I cry, — 

" O martyred Boon, of peerless fame, 

Incarnate in thy life, Love came ! " 



COD'S LIGHT-HOUSES. 237 



THE VICTORY OF PATIENCE. 




RMED of the gods ! Divinest conqueror ! 
What soundless hosts are thine ! Nor pomp, 
nor state, 

Nor token, to betray where thou dost wait. 
All Nature stands, for thee, ambassador ; 
Her forces all thy serfs, for peace or war. 
Greatest and least alike, thou rul'st their fate, — 
The avalanche chained until its century's date, 
The mulberry leaf made robe for emperor ! 
Shall man alone thy law deny? — refuse 
Thy healing for his blunders and his sins ? 
Oh, make us thine ! Teach us who waits best sues ; 
Who longest waits of all most surely wins. 
When Time is spent. Eternity begins. 
To doubt, to chafe, to haste, doth God accuse. 



GOD'S LIGHT-HOUSES. 




HEN night falls on the earth, the sea 
From east to west lies twinkling bright 
With shining beams from beacons high 
W^hich flash afar a friendly light. 

The sailor's eyes, like eyes in prayer. 
Turn unto them for guiding ray : 

If storms obscure their radiance, 

The great ships helpless grope their way. 



238 POEMS. 

When night falls on the earth, the sky 
Looks like a wide, a boundless main. 

Who knows what voyagers sail there ? 

Who names the ports they seek and gain? 

Are not the stars like beacons set 

To guide the argosies that go 
From universe to universe. 

Our little world above, below ? — 

On their great errands solemn bent. 
In their vast journeys unaware 

Of our small planet's name or place 
Revolving in the lower air. 

O thought too vast ! O thought too glad ! 

An awe most rapturous it stirs. 
From world to world God's beacons shine : 

God means to save his mariners ! 



SONGS OF BATTLE. 

LD as the world — no other things so old ; 
Nay, older than the world, else, how had 
sprung 

Such lusty strength in them when earth was young? — 
Stand valor and its passion hot and bold, 
Insatiate of battle. How, else, told 
Blind men, born blind, that red was fitting tongue 
Mute, eloquent, to show how trumpets rung 
When armies charged and battle-flags unrolled? 




NO MAN'S LAND. 239 

Who sings of valor speaks for life, for death, 
Beyond all death, and long as life is life, 
In rippled waves the eternal air his breath 
Eternal bears to stir all noble strife. 
Dead Homer from his lost and vanished grave 
Keeps battle glorious still and soldiers brave. 



NO MAN'S LAND. 

HO called it so? What accident 
The wary phase devised ? 
What wandering fancy thither went, 
And hngered there surprised? 



Ah, no man's land ! O sweet estate 

inimitably fair ! 
No measure, wall, or bar or gate. 

Secure as sky or air. 

No greed, no gain ; not sold or bought, 
Unmarred by name or brand. 

Not dreamed of or desired or sought, 
Nor visioned, "no man's land." 

Suns set and rise, and rise and set, 
Whole summers come and go ; 

And winters pay the summer's debt, 
And years of west wind blow ; 




240 POEMS. 

And harvesLs of wild seed-times fill, 

And seed and fill again ; 
And blossoms bloom at blossoms' will, 

By blossoms overlain ; 

And day and night, and night and day, 

Uncounted suns and moons, 
By silent shadows mark and stay 

Unreckoned nights and noons : 

Ah, " no man's land," hast thou a lover, 
Thy wild, sweet charm who sees ? 

The stars look down ; the birds fly over ; 
Art thou alone with these ? 

Ah, " no man's land," when died thy lover, 

Who left no trace to tell ? 
Thy secret we shall not discover ; 

The centuries keep it well ! 



JUST OUT OF SIGHT. 



N idle reverie, one winter's day, 
I watched the narrow vista of a street, 
Where crowds of men with noisy, hurrying 
feet 
And eager eyes went on their restless way. 
Idly I noted where the boundary lay, 
At which the distance did my vision cheat, 




JUST OUT OF SIGHT. 241 

Past which each figure fading fast did fleet, 
And seem to meet and vanish in the gray. 
Sudden there came to me a thought, oft told, 
But newly shining then like flash of light, — 
"This death, the dread of which turns us so cold. 
Outside of our own fears has no stronghold ; 
'T is but a boundary, past which, in white, 
Our friends are walking still, just out of sight ! " 



II. 

"Just out of sight ! " Ay, truly, that is all ! 
Take comfort in the words, and be deceived 
All ye who can, or have not been bereaved 1 
" Just out of sight." 'T is easy to recall 
A face, a voice. O foolish words, and small 
And bitter cheer ! Men have all this believed, 
And yet, in agony, to death have grieved, 
For one "just out of sight," beneath a pall ! 
"Just out of sight." It means the whole of woe : 
One sudden stricken blind who loved the light ; 
One starved where he had feasted day and night ; 
One who was crowned, to beggary brought low ; 
All this death doeth, going to and fro 
And putting those we love "just out of sight." 



16 



242 POEMS. 



SEPTEMBER WOODS. 




IRT round by meadows wearing shabby 
weeds 
For clover's early death, and sentried by 
The tireless locust, with his mufified click 
Of secret weapon, at each footfall, stand 
The woods. 

September, smiling treacherous smiles, 
And bearing in his hand a hollow truce 
Which gentle Summer trusts, can enter free. 
O fatal trust ! Her sacred inner court 
Of Holies, holiest, the lovely queen 
Throws open to the ally of her foe. 
By day, with sunny look and gracious air 
He wins her heart and wears her colors. Night 
Beholds him, in his white and gleaming mail. 
Alert and noiseless, following the dews, 
Her faithful messengers, waylaying them 
With sudden cruel death, and, in their stead. 
His own foul treason bearing through the realm. 
Lured by his guile, the green and twining vines 
Array themselves in party-colored robes 
And loosely flaunt, unknowing 't is their death. 
The low Bunch-Berry her nun's white lays by, 
And wearing claret satin, decks her breast 
With knots of scarlet beads. This sin, O sweet, 
Tn resurrection of the coming Spring. 
Shall be forgiven thee, and thou again 
Shalt rise, as white as snow. 



SEPTEMBER WOODS. 243 

The fragrant ferns, 
And clinging mosses, to whom Summer kind 
Had been, more than to other lowly things, 
Are tme ; and not till they are trampled low 
By icy warriors, will they refuse 
Their emerald carpet to her tread, and then, 
In cold white grief, will die around her feet : 
The simpering Birch, unstable in the wind. 
Is first to break his faith, and cheaply bought 
By gold, in brazen vanity, lifts up 
His arms, and broadly waves the glittering price 
Of his dishonor : Poplars next and Elms 
Grow envious of the yellow show, and hold 
Their hands for traitor's wages ; but more scant 
And dim the golden tokens gained by them ; 
For now disloyalty has spread, and grown 
More bold of front : whole clans are cheaply won. 
In hostile signal fires from hill to hill, 
The Maples blaze ; the tangled Sumach-trees 
Of glowing spikes build crimson ladders up 
The wall ; ungainly Moosewood strives and creeps 
And shakes his purple-spotted banner out 
Defiantly ; the sturdy Beeches throw 
Their harvest down, and bristle in a suit 
Of leathern points : all is revolt, and all 
Is lost for Summer ! 

Vainly now she showers 
By brook and pool her white and purple stars, 
And lifts in all the fields her Golden-Rod ; 
In vain thin scarlet streamers sets along 
The meadows, and to Gentian's pallid lips 
Of blue calls back the chilled and torpid bee ; 



2 44 FOE MS. 

Sweet queen, her kingdom rocks ! Her only stay 

And comfort now, the loving Pines who wait 

In solemn grief, unmoved and undismayed 

By guile or threats, and to their farthest kin, 

A haughty and untarnished race, will keep 

Eternally inviolate and green 

Their sworn allegiance to her and all 

Her name ! Encircled by their arms she dies ; 

And not the deadliest thrusts of wintry spears. 

Nor sweeping avalanche of snow and ice, 

Can daunt them from their silent watch around 

Her sepulchre, nor from their faithful hold 

Can wrest the babe, who, hid in sacred depths 

And fed on sacred food, and nurtured till 

The fated day, shall lift her infant hand. 

And slaying the usurper, take the throne 

Next in the royal line of summer queens. 



TO-DAY. 

SADDEST prisoner, to death condemned. 
Going blindfold, with slow, reluctant feet. 
Hands fettered and mute lips, thy doom to 
meet. 
By flaming swords before, behind thee, hemmed. 
Led by two Fates, — To-morrow, with her gemmed 
Arms that flash mocking tokens of the sweet 
Things thou hadst hoped ; and Yesterday with cheat 
Of withered roses which thou hast contemned, 




OPPORTUNITY. 245 

Decking her icy brow and heavy pall ; 
While we, mute, helpless, with prophetic black 
Have wrapped ourselves, and in thy narrow track 
Come, hand in hand, blindfolded, fettered all, 
Waiting the hour when, in thy death's last thrall 
Bidding us follow thee, thou shalt look back. 



OPPORTUNITY. 

DO not know if, climbing some steep hill, 
Through fragrant wooded pass, this glimpse 
I bought, 

Or whether in some mid-day I was caugh"" 
To upper air, where visions of God's will 
In pictures to our quickened sense fulfil 
His word. But this I saw. 

A path I sought 
Through wall of rock. No human fingers wrought 
The golden gates which opened sudden, still, 
And wide. My fear was hushed by my delight. 
Surpassing fair the lands ; my path lay plain ; 
Alas, so spell- bound, feasting on the sight, 
I paused, that I but reached the threshold bright, 
When, swinging swift, the golden gates again 
Were rocky wall, by which I wept in vain. 





246 PC EMS. 



FLOWERS ON A GRAVE. 

I. 

HAT sweeter thing to hear, through tears, 
than this, 
Of one who dies, that, looking on him dead, 
All men with tender reverence gazed and said : 
" What courtesy and gentleness were his ! 
Our ruder lives, for years to come, will miss 
His sweet serenity, which daily shed 
A grace we scarcely felt, so deep inbred 
Of nature was it. Loyalty which is 
So loyal as his loyalty to friends 
Is rare ; such purity is rarer still." 
Yes, there is yet one sweeter thing. It ends 
The broken speech with sobs that choke and fill 
Our throats. 

Alas ! lost friend, we knew not how 
Our hearts were won to love thee, until now. 

II. 

Some lives are bright like torches, and their flame 

Casts flickering lights around, and changeful heats ; 

Some lives blaze like the meteor which fleets 

Across the sky ; and some of lofty aim 

Stand out like beacon-lights. But never came. 

Or can, a light so satisfying sweet. 

As steady daylight, unperturbed, complete. 

And noiseless. 

Human lives we see the same 



A MEASURE OF HOURS. 247 

As this ; their equilibrium so just, 
Their movement so serene, so still, small heed 
The world pays to their presence till in need 
It sudden finds itself. The darkness near, 
The precious life returning dust for dust, 
It recollects how noon and life were clear. 

III. 
How poor is all that fame can be or bring ! 
Although a generation feed the pyre, 
How soon dies out the lifeless, loveless fire ! 
The king is dead. Hurrah ! Long live the king ! 
The poet breathes his last. Who next will sing ? 
The great man falls. Who comes to mount still 

higher? 
Oh, bitter emptiness of such desire ! 
Earth holds but one true good, but one true thing, 
And this is it — to walk in honest ways 
And patient, and with all one's heart belong 
In love unto one's own ! No death so strong 
That life like this he ever conquers, slays ; 
The centuries do to it no hurt, no wrong : 
They are eternal resurrection diys. 



A MEASURE OF HOURS. 

NTO those two I called who hold 
In hands omnipotent all lives 
Of men, and deal, like gods, such doled 

Alms as they list, to him who strives 

And him who waits alike : 




248 rOEMS. 

" Oh ! show 
Me but how measure ye one hour 
Of time, that I at least may know 
If I lift up this cross what power 
I need ; and what I win of bliss 
If I may dare to pay the cost — 
Whole cost, without which I must miss 
This joy, and feel my life lost." 
Then Joy spoke first, all breathless : 

" Drink ! 
An hour seems like eternity. 
My moments hold whole ages. Think 
No price too great which buys for thee 
This boundless bliss. Such hours as mine 
Mock reckonings. The sands stand still. 
Drink quickly ! I will give the sign 
When it is over Drink thy fill ! " 

I had scarce tasted when, with face 

All changed and voice grown sharp, Joy cried : 

" Thine hour is past. Give place ! Give place ! 

New hearts impatiently abide 

Thy going. Every man fills up 

His own swift measure. Thou hadst thine. 

Who weakly drains the empty cup 

Drinks only bitter dregs of wine." 

Then Sorrow whispered gently : " Take 
This burden up. Be not afraid. 
An hour is short. Thou scarce wilt wake 
To consciousness that I have laid 



A MEASURE OF HOURS. 249 

My hand upon thee, when the hour 
Shall all have passed, and, gladder then 
For the brief pain's upUfting power. 
Thou shalt but pity griefless men." 

I grew by minutes changed and old. 
As men change not in many years 
Of happiness. Lifetimes untold 
Seemed dragging lifeless by. My tears 
Ran slow for utter weariness 
Of weeping ; and, when token came 
The hour was done, I felt far less 
Of joy than woe ; as one whose name 
Is called, when prison doors have swung 
Open too late, reluctantly 
Goes forth to find himself among 
Strange faces, desolate, though free. 

" O cruel brethren, Joy and Grief," 
I cried, " with equal mockery 
Your promises meet our belief. 
One blossom and one fruit will be 
Your harvest ! But full well I know 
They are not harvest ; only seed 
Sown in our tears, from which shall grow 
In other soil harvest indeed, — 

" Harvest in God's great gardens white, 
Where cool and living waters run, 
And where the spotless Lamb is light, 
Instead of pallid moon and sun ; 




250 POEMS. 

Where constant through the golden air 
The tree of Ufe sheds mystic leaf, 
Which angels to the nations bear, 
Healing alike their joy and grief." 



CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 



UT yesterday it was. Long years ago 

It seems. The world so altered looks 
to-day 

That, journeying idly with my thoughts astray, 
I gazed where rose one lofty peak of snow 
Above grand tiers on tiers of peaks below. 
One moment brief it shone, then sank away, 
As swift we reached a point where foot-hills lay 
So near they seemed like mountains huge to grow. 
And touch the sky. That instant, idly still. 
My eye fell on a printed line, and read 
Incredulous, with sudden anguished thrill, 
The name of this great queen among the dead. 
I raised my eyes. The dusty foot-hills near 
Had gone. Again the snowy peak shone clear. 

II. 

Oh ! thou beloved woman, soul and heart 
And life, thou standest unapproached and grand, 
As still that glorious snowy peak doth stand. 
The dusty barrier our clumsy art 



DEDICATION. 251 

In terror hath called death holds thee apart 
From us. 'T is but the low foot-hill of sand 
Which bars our vision in a mountain-land. 
One moment further on, and we shall start 
With speechless joy to find that we have passed 
The dusky mound which shuts us from the light 
Of thy great love, still quick and warm and fast, 
Of thy great strengths, heroically cast, 
Of thy great soul, still glowing pure and white, 
Of thy great life, still pauseless, full, and bright ! 



DEDICATION. 

SAW men kneeling where their hands had 

brought 
And fashioned curiously a pile of stone. 
To God they said they gave it, for his own, 
And that their psalms and prayers had wrought 
Its consecration. When, perplexed, I sought 
Their meaning, they but answered with a groan. 
And called my question blasphemy. Alone, 
In silence of the wilderness, I thought 
Again. Swift answer came from rock, tree, sod : 
" These puny prayers superfluous rise, and late 
These psalms. When first the world swung out in 

space, 
Amid the shoutings of the sons of God, 
Then was its every atom dedicate. 
Forever holy by God's gift and grace." 




V 



252 



POEMS. 




DAWN. 

ITH a ring of silver, 
And a ring of gold. 
And a red, red rose 

Which illumines her face. 
The sun, like a lover 

Who glows and is bold. 
Wooes the lovely earth 
To his strong embrace. 




EVE. 

N millions of pieces 

The beautiful rings 
And the scattered petals 
Of the rose so red, 
The sun, like a lover 

Who is weary, flings 
On the lonely earth 
When the day is dead. 



DREAMS. 



YSTERIOUS shapes, with wands of joy and 
pain, 
Which seize us unaware in helpless sleep, 
And lead us to the houses where we keep 
Our secrets hid, well barred by every chain 




THE DAY-STAR IN THE EAST. 253 

That we can forge and bind : the crime whose stain 

Is slowly fading 'neath the tears we weep ; 

Dead bliss which, dead, can make our pulses leap — 

Oh, cruelty ! To make these live again ! 

They say that death is sleep, and heaven's rest 

Ends earth's short day, as, on the last faint gleam 

Of sun, our nights shut down, and we are blest. 

Let this, then, be of heaven's joy the test, 

The proof if heaven be, or only seem, 

That we forever choose what we will dream ! 



THE DAY-STAR IN THE EAST. 



ACH morning, in the eastern sky, I see 
The star that morning dares to call its own. 
Night's myriads it has outwatched and out- 
shone ; 

Full radiant dawn pales not its majesty ; 

Peer of the sun, his herald fit and free. 

Sudden from earth, dark, heavy mists are blown ; 

The city's grimy smoke, to pillars grown. 

Climbs up the sky, and hides the star from me. 

Strange, that a film of smoke can blot a star ! 

On comes, with blinding glare, the breathless day : 

The star is gone. The moon doth surer lay 

Than midnight gloom, athwart its light, a bar. 

But steadfast as God's angels planets are. 

To-morrow's dawn will show its changeless ray. 




:54 POEMS. 



II. 



The centuries are God's days ; within his hand. 
Held in the hollow, as a balance swings, 
Less than its dust, are all our temporal things. 
Long are his nights, when darkness steeps the land 
Thousands of years fill one slow dawn's de'mand ; 
The human calendar its measure brings, 
Feeble and vain, to lift the soul that clings 
To hope for light, and seeks to understand. 
The centuries are God's days ; the greatest least 
In his esteem. We have no glass to sweep 
His universe. A hand's-breadth distant dies, 
To our poor ears, the strain whose echoes keep 
All heaven glad. We do but grope and creep. 
There always is a day-star in the skies ! 



OCTOBER'S BRIGHT BLUE WEATHER. 



SUNS and skies and clouds of June, 
And flowers of June together, 

Ye cannot rival for one hour 
October's bright blue weather, 



When loud the bumble-bee makes haste, 

Belated, thriftless vagrant, 
And Golden-Rod is dying fast. 

And lanes with grapes are fragrant ; 




OCTOBER'S BRIGHT BLUE WEATHER. 255 

When Gentians roll their fringes tight 
\- To save them for the morning, 
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs 
Without a sound of warning ; 

When on the ground red apples lie 

In piles like jewels shining, 
And redder still on old stone walls 

Are leaves of woodbine twining ; 



\ 



' When all the lovely wayside things 

Their white-winged seeds are sowing, 
And in the fields, still green and fair, 
( Late aftermaths are growing; 

When springs run low, and on the brooks, 

In idle golden freighting. 
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush 

Of woods, for v/inter waiting ; 

When comrades seek sweet country haunts, 

By twos and twos together. 
And count like misers hour by hour, 

October's bright blue weather. 

O suns and skies and flowers of June, 
Count all yowx boasts together. 

Love loveth best of all the year 
October's bright blue weather. 




256 POEMS. \ 



THE RIVIERA. 

PEERLESS shore of peerless sea, 
Ere mortal eye had gazed on thee, 
\Vhat god was lover first of thine. 
Drank deep of thy unvintaged wine, 
And lying on thy shining breast 
Knew all thy passion and thy rest ; 
And when thy love he must resign, 
O generous god, first love of thine, 
Left such a dower of wealth to thee, 
Thou peerless shore of peerless sea ! 
Thy balmy air, thy stintless sun. 
Thy orange- flowering never done. 
Thy myrtle, olive, palm, and pine. 
Thy golden figs, thy ruddy wine, 
Thy subtle and resistless spell 
Which all men feel and none can tell? 
O peerless shore of peerless sea ! 
From all the world we turn to thee ; 
No wonder deem we thee divine ! 
Some god was lover first of thine. 



SEMITONES. 



H me, the subtle boundary between 
What pleases and what pains ! The dif- 
ference 

Between the word that thrills our every sense 
With joy and one which hurts, although it mean 



IN THE DARK. 257 

No hurt ! It is the things that are unseen, 

Invisible, not things of violence, 

For which the mightiest are without defence. 

On kine most fair to see one may grow lean 

With hunger. Many a snowy bread is doled 

Which is iix harder than the hardest stones. 

'T is but a narrow line divides the zones 

Where suns are warm from those where suns are cold. 

'Twixt harmonies divine as chords can hold 

And torturing discords, lie but semitones ! 



IN THE DARK. 

S one who journeys on a stormy night 
Through mountain passes which he does not 
know 

Shields like his life from savage gusts that blow 
The swaying flame of his frail torch's light, 
So each of us through life's long groping fight 
Clings fast to one dear faith, one love, whose glow 
Makes darkness noonday to our trusting sight. 
And joys of perils into which we go. 
God help us, when this precious shining mark 
The raging storms of deep distrust assail 
With icy, poisoned breath and deadly aim, 
Till we, with hearts that shrink and cower and quail 
In terror which no measure has nor name. 
Stand trembling, helpless, palsied, in the dark. 

17 





-'5 8 POEMS. 



CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN. 

|Y easy slope to west as if it liad 

No thought, when first its soaring was begun, 
Except to look devoutly to the sun, 
It rises and has risen, until glad, 
With light as with a garment, it is clad, 
Each dawn, before the tardy plains have won 
One ray ; and after day has long been done 
For us, the light doth cling reluctant, sad to leave its 
brow. 

Beloved mountain, I 
Thy worshipper as thou the sun's, each morn 
My dawn, before the dawn, receive from thee ; 
And think, as thy rose-tinted peaks I see 
That thou wert great when Homer was not born. 
And ere thou change all human song shall die 1 



IN APRIL. 

HAT did the sparrow do yesterday? 
Nobody knew but the sparrows ; 
He were too bold who should try to say ; 




They have forgotten it all to-day. 
Why does it haunt my thoughts this way, 
With a joy that piques and harrows, 

As the birds fly past. 

And the chimes ring fast, 
And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast? 



2 So POEMS. 



TWO HARVESTS. 




LOSSOM and fruit no man could count oi 
hoard ; 
Seasons their laws forgot, in riot haste 



Lavishing yield on yield in madman's waste ; 
No tropic with its centuries' heat outpoured 
In centuries of summers, ever stored 
Such harvest. 

Had the earth her sole pearl placed 
In wine of sun to melt, — one blissful taste 
To drain and die, — it had not fully dowered 
This harvest ! 

She who smiling goes, a queen, 
Reaping with alabaster arms and hands 
The fruits and flowers of these magic lands, 
With idle, satiate intervals between, — 
Oh, what to her do laws of harvest mean ? 
Joy passes by her, where she laden stands ! 



II. 

A PARCHED and arid land, all colorless. 

Than desert drearier, than rock more stern ; 

Spring could not find, nor any summer learn 

The secret to redeem this wilderness. 

Harsh winds sweep through with icy storm and stress 

Fierce lurid suns shine but to blight and burn ; 



HABEAS CORPUS. 261 

And streams rise, pallid, but to flee and turn : 
Who soweth here waits miracle to bless 
The harvest ! 

She who smiling goes, a queen. 
Seeking with hidden tears and tireless hands 
To win a fruitage from these barren lands, — 
She knoweth what the laws of harvest mean ! 
Blades spring, flowers bloom, by all but her unseen ; 
Joy's halo crowns her, where she patient stands ! 



HABEAS CORPUS. 

Y body, eh? Friend Death, how now? 
Why all this tedious pomp of writ ? 
Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow 
For half a century bit by bit. 

In faith thou knowest more to-day 
Than I do, where it can be found ! 

This shrivelled lump of suffering clay, 
To which I now am chained and bound, 

Has not of kith or kin a trace 
To the good body once I bore ; 

Look at this shrunken, ghastly face : 
Didst ever see that face before ? 

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art ; 

Thy only fault thy lagging gait. 
Mistaken pity in thy heart 

For timorous ones that bid thee wait. 




262 FGEMS. 

Do quickly all thou hast to do, 

Nor I nor mine will hindrance make ; 

I shall be free when thou art through ; 

I grudge thee nought that thou must take ! 

Stay ! I have lied ; I grudge thee one, 
Yes, two I grudge thee at this last, — 

Two members which have faithful done 
My will and bidding in the past. 

I grudge thee this right hand of mine; 

I grudge thee this quick-beating heart ; 
They never gave me coward sign. 

Nor played me once a traitor's part. 

I see now why in olden days 

Men in barbaric love or hate 
Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways, 

Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state : 

The symbol, sign, and instrument 

Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, 

Of fires in which are poured and spent 
Their all of love, their all of life. 

O feeble, mighty human hand ! 

O fragile, dauntless human heart ! 
The universe holds nothing planned 

With such sublime, transcendent art ! 



''WITH THEM THAT DO REJOICE." 263 

Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine 

Poor little hand, so feeble now ; 
Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, 

Its veins so pallid and so slow — 

. . . (Unfinished here.) 

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art ; 

I shall be free when thou art through. 
Take all there is — take hand and heart ; 

There must be somewhere work to do. 



'-WITH THEM THAT DO REJOICE." 

A CONGRATUL.\TION. 

LL yesterday our sky was cold and gray ; 
A misty wall of cloud hid from our sight 
The mountain-tops ; the plains stretched 
cold and white. 
And snow-flakes slowly floated down and lay 
Like funeral flowers about the pallid day. 
Sudden at noon the sky to south grew bright. 
Turned blue, was radiant in full sunny light. 
Beneath our clouds we sat, and looked away 
Into this glowing south till sunset. So 
Into my life's gray calm to-day there fell 
Message that two I love had come to know 
The one great earthly joy no words can tell. 
Dear Hearts, I think light from your South will flow 
To me until the tolling sunset-bell. 




!64 



POEMS. 




A LAST PRAYER. 

ATHER, I scarcely dare to pray, 
So clear I see, now it is done, 
That I have wasted half my day, 
And left my work but just begun ; 



So clear I see that things I thought 
Were right or harmless were a sin ; 

So clear I see that I have sought. 
Unconscious, selfish aims to win ; 

So clear I see that I have hurt 

The souls I might have helped to save ; 
That I have slothful been, inert. 

Deaf to the calls thy leaders gave. 

In outskirts of thy kingdoms vast. 
Father, the humblest spot give me ; 

Set me the lowliest task thou hast ; 
Let me repentant work for thee ! 



THE SONG HE NEVER WROTE. 




IS thoughts were song, his life was singing ; 
Men's hearts like harps he held and smote, 
But in his heart went ever ringing, 
Ringing, the song he never wrote. 



THE SONG HE A^EVER WROTE. 265 

Hovering, pausing, luring, fleeting, 

A farther blue, a brighter mote, 
The vanished sound of swift winds meeting, 

The opal swept beneath the boat. 

A gleam of wings forever flaming, 

Never folded in nest or cote ; 
Secrets of joy, past name or naming ; 

Measures of bliss past dole or rote ; 

Echoes of music, always flying, 

Always echo, never the note ; 
Pulses of life, past life, past dying, — 

All these in the song he never wrote. 

Dead at last, and the people, weeping. 

Turned from his grave with wringing hands, — 

" What shall we do, now he lies sleeping. 
His sweet song silent in our lands? 



"Just as his voice grew clearer, stronger," — 
This was the thought that keenest smote, — 

"O Death ! couldst thou not spare him longer? 
Alas for the songs he never wrote ! " 

Free at last, and his soul up-soaring. 
Planets and skies beneath his feet, 

Wonder and rapture all out-pouring, 
Eternity how simple, sweet ! 



266 rOEMS. 

Sorrow slain, and every regretting, 
Love and Love's labors left the same, 

Weariness over, suns without setting, 
Motion like thought on wings of flame : 

Higher the singer rose and higher, 
Heavens, in spaces, sank like bars ; 

Great joy within him glowed like fire. 
He tossed his arms among the stars, — 

" This is the hfe, past life, past dying ; 

I am I, and I live the life : 
Shame on the thought of mortal crying ! 

Shame on its petty toil and strife ! 

" Why did I halt, and weakly tremble ? " 
Even in heaven the memory smote, — 

" Fool to be dumb, and to dissemble ! 
Alas for the song I never wrote ! " 



04 \l\46 



